For Good
by biggrstaffbunch
Summary: Andrew never was good at keeping secrets. When he lets slip Spike's little secret, Buffy decides she's had enough of the running away, insecure, vampirewithasoul crap. She's bound and determined to go to L.A and shake things up just a bit. [PostDamage, sp
1. Chapter 1

Title: For Good

Author: biggrstaffbunch

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Spike/Buffy

Summary: Andrew never was good at keeping secrets. When he lets slip Spike's little secret, Buffy decides she's had enough of the running away, insecure, vampire-with-a-soul crap. She's bound and determined to go to L.A and shake things up just a bit. Post-Damage, spoilers through You're Welcome, AU AtS S5

A/N: This is a multi-chaptered fic I started. Although I'm not sure if I'll have it all done in time for later tonight, I am trying. It's not an epic undertaking, but it's definitely got its layers. Hope you guys like this!

o o o

An interesting fact that Buffy has come to realize: Andrew is a very, very bad liar. He is prone to getting all twitchy and yammery, face red and eyes slitted so narrow he looks as blind as a newborn kitten. About as pathetic, too.

Sometimes his voice even cracks, and then he gets tight-lipped and will only say 'his therapist does not condone brute force in the journey for self-truth. His 'iron-clad will, much like the indestructible strength of Wolverine's epic adamantium skeletal stucture,' will not be broken. But all it takes is a good noogie to get him singing like a bird.

Usually.

Buffy is beginning to suspect, however, that because of all the unsupervised time they give him in his fantasyland of a brain, Andrew is starting to do bad things. Like lie.

The thing is--well, Buffy? She doesn't like it when people do bad things.

And Andrew _mostly _does good things now. He knows what happens to people who do bad things, like start an apocalypse, or, say, steal the last cookie from the secret stash Dawn hides in her underwear drawer. They get Punished. (Hadn't even Willow found out the hard way that the Summers sisters mean Capital-Letter business when it comes to their cookies? And apocalypses, too, of course.)

Buffy also knows Andrew realizes, first and foremost, that he is dispensible, and while they may not kill him, the Scooby Gang would probably not hesitate in kicking him to the curb like the goob he is, should the need arise. He is just that shady. And i annoying /i . Watching television at all hours of the night, intruding in personal lives in his extremely embarassing fashion, making everything just some huge melodramatic comic book-slash-movie-slash-epic- _thing _-- and God, why i is /i he still living with her again?

Buffy shakes her head.

A more pressing question is this: why the hell is Mr. Retardo strutting like he owns the tiny little flat he so cleverly infested weeks ago by whining until the only way to shut him up was to give him the couch? What is it that makes him munch away at Buffy's Oreos, a maniacal glint in his beady little eyes? Buffy can't even bring herself to kick his ass; it would be too much like kicking a puppy. So she settles on raising an eyebrow as Dawn folds her arms. The Summers tag-team, but golly gee, for once, even Andrew isn't biting. Usually by this juncture in the game, the blabbermouth would be blabbing all his blab and then some. But now...

What does he _ know ?_

It totally does not help that he's just gotten back from that re-con mission Giles sent him on. In LA. Where a (she hesitates to say evil, exactly) severely morally ambiguous Angel works at an Apocalypse-happy law firm. Where words and gestures and shouty things had inevitably happened. Where Andrew had handled a crazy Slayer and had somehow lived to tell about it. Buffy is all kinds of curious, George, and she wants answers.

"'Had to get the boy out and about'," Buffy fumes silently, mocking the defensive tone Giles had taken when she'd sent that ballistic phone call his way. "'Had to make him think he was helping, or he'd just slip back to the old ways.' Well, good! Slip away, 'cause then I get to _kill _him."

A loud crunching sound and Dawn's helpless whimper brings Buffy back from the red haze of unreasonableness.

"Andrew." Buffy's voice finally cuts through the air, and everyone can tell she is pissed. Dawn's eyebrow's knit together and she shifts, her lips quirking in that smirky way that says, 'My sister could _so _beat you up.'

"Buongiornio, Buffy," Andrew says cordially, his lips coated with the fine, gritty brown dust of Oreo. Buffy closes her eyes. Oreos are her favorite. She's fought evil for what, almost a decade now? All she wants is a stupid Oreo. Instead, she has stupid Andrew in her stupid Italian kitchen that she hates because it is stupid Italy and is supposed to be wonderful, but she hates it because she misses ice in her drinks and supermarkets that are open twenty-four hours and a language she actually has some semblance of a command over. Stupid Rome.

"Buffy? Che cosa fai? I'm sort of occupato right now, 'kay?" Andrew waves a hand in Buffy's face and her eyes narrow.

"I am so not in a multilingual mood right now," she warns dangerously, advancing. "I can feel the stench of secrets radiating off your body like an evil, smelly thing. Stop looking like the cat with the canary and tell us what's the what."

Dawn nods vigorously. "Or," she starts, "Buffy could, you know, _make _you cough up that 'canary'. Unpleasantly. By forcing it out of your mouth--bodily--and, uh--" she breaks off uncertainly. "I don't think I did very well with your analogy," she says apolegetically.

Buffy pats her arm reassuringly before turning to Andrew and cocking her head expectantly. "The point is, and I cannot emphasize this enough, Andy: _well _?"

Buffy knows she's being crazy. It's just an Oreo. And Andrew isn't really that bad, she tolerates him pretty well when she can ignore the incessant chatter and disturbing tendency to rifle through women's underwear. He's like their own little mascot. Plus, he's suprisingly good with the strategy (a fact Xander credits to long hours in the company of the love of both their lives, Dungeons & Dragons) and that's endeared him well enough to the Watcher's Council. But Buffy senses something about Andrew tonight, an energy and light that had been absent in his eyes since the battle at the Hellmouth. She knows half of it is the glow of actually getting to play tough-guy and stomp all over Angel's credibility like some sort of, well, tough-guy, but the other half is something that tickles her Slayer sense and screams, "Sit down! Big news! Sit down, I said, all right, don't listen, but when your legs give out, don't say I didn't warn you!"

Buffy nudges a chair over and takes a breath. "Who's dead, dying, evil, or dating someone new even though they said their love was forever and he'd wait until I stopped baking, but I always knew he lied, because it was something in the way he wrinkled his forehead and oh, my God, just tell me right now before I keep on saying words!"

Andrew has stopped chewing. "Oh," he says, blinking. "It wasn't anything dark or brooding. That means it wasn't anything that had something to do with your dangerous and intense ex-boyfriend and your tragic past together, which is reminiscent of the doomed lovers in Romeo plus Juliet, and you know that's funny because both you and Claire are blondes and Angel's got that whole washed-up, used-to-be cool thing that Leo so unfairly suffers from, because you know, _I _ still think he's cool, just not as cool as Sp--" Andrew blinks again. "You know," he laughed nervously, "Angel _was _ a little strange about my position of authority. Especially after I told him you didn't trust him any more and I was your second-hand man--"

" _What _?"

"Oh, just save it," Dawn pipes up. Buffy turns to look at her sharply, wondering what she's doing. Dawn just gives a tiny wink. Buffy sits back and tries to calm down--Dawn usually knows just how to rile Andrew up and get her way. After all, it _is _her underwear drawer that he always paws through. If Buffy didn't already have her suspicions regarding Andrew's sexuality, she'd say he has a crush on her little sister. But it's probably just that Andrew has a crush on every living thing on the planet. She gives a little moue of introspection as she waits to see how Dawn will play this out.

"We don't wanna know anything."

Buffy gives a look of disbelief but Dawn continues to speak.

"I bet you saw something you think was ultra-cool that would make us ultra-jealous and make you ultra-respected in a way you _so _ are not right now," Dawn plows on, shrugging. "But it's probably just something totally lame, like a vampire or something. And so, we don't care." Dawn gives a beautific smile and then reaches for the uneaten Oreo in Andrew's hand. "Hear that?" she asks, chewing away. "We don't care." She gestures to Buffy. "Com'n, Buff. Let's go not care someplace else. Away from Mr. Zipper-lips."

Buffy is about to dig in her heels and i accidentally /i throw something at Dawn for ruining what had been a very threatening, but productive, line of questioning, when Andrew gives a dramatic sigh.

"All right," he starts reluctantly. "I'll tell you, but only because your forbidden love cries out its siren song to me. And also, I just want him to be happy." Buffy is alarmed to see a shiny film of tears begin to gather in Andrew's eyes, and she scrambles to stop them. Grabbing the last Oreo, she hands it to him and pats his shoulder.

"Hey, now," she says desperately. "Stop crying. Please?" A feeling of dread sweeps over her, the same familiar feeling that has a nasty way of creeping up on her when her brain does that annoying thing called 'putting two and two together.'

"I'm sorry," Andrew hiccups. "It's just, a very emotional time in my life right now, and surprises like this are climactic to the point of eclipsing even Darth Vader's momentous confession of parenthood in Episode Five, when the empire striketh back. I mean, we thought he was dead. Kaput. Finito. No more rides on the back of awesome motorcycles, no more manly repartee...he was really gone." Andrew takes a deep breath and smiles brightly. "Except he's _not_ gone. He's alive, Igor, alliiivvee--"

"Andrew." Buffy's voice is low and deadly. Her hand (of its own volition of course) has shot out and grabbed the material of Andrew's shirt. The squirrely little man is now a foot off the floor and getting bluer by the second. "I'm pretty good at the patience thing, usually. But right now I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm angry, and okay, I'm a little bit apprehensive about what you're trying to tell me. Oh, who am I kidding? I am of the suck when it comes to waiting. I don't like senses of foreboding. They make me go all itchy. So, Andrew. Tell me what I want to know without waxing poetic. Or I'm gonna wax the floor with your shaggy head."

"Okay! Okay, I _did _see a vampyre. A vampyre of particular interest to you, kind but fearsome lady." Andrew pauses dramatically, relishing the roll of the 'r' as he closes his eyes in delight. A piece of cream sticks to his lip and Buffy's eye twitches. Oreos and secrets and just get the hell on with it already, superfreak! "A vampyre with a soul, reborn as a champion of what's right, although sometime he can get a little scary but I know it's just his defense mechanisms kicking in and keeping him away from the general populace--"

"Not explaining nearly fast enough--" Buffy's arm is pulling back to hike him up just a little higher when she feels a small, cool hand wrap around her wrist.

"Buffy. Buffy, stop." The voice is soothing. "Buff. He can't talk with your fingers all clawing at his throat."

"Oh. Good," Buffy whisperes wildly. "Oh, god, _good_ , because I think I know what he's going to say, Dawn." With a dull thud, Andrew falls to the floor as Buffy's hand drops. Her legs are shaking as she turns and starts to pace frantically.

"Did I mention I don't do well with hope?" she asks. "In fact, Giles likes to tell me I'm hopeless. All the time. So, I don't like it when I know someone's dead and someone else tells me that maybe that person's not dead. At least I think--that _is _ what you're trying to tell me, right? 'Cause the whole vampire with a soul thing, I mean, there i are /i two, well, _were _, or--or-- is it are?" Buffy's eyes are uncertain as she prods Andrew with her foot. Off his tentative nod, she resumes her diatribe. "God! Okay, when I think someone's dead, hey, sue me if I expect them to _stay_ dead, right? We're not on the Hellmouth anymore, okay! Resurrection is not the cool new thing."

Dawn frowns. "I don't get it, Buffy. What's Andrew talking about?"

"I knew it. I mean, okay, I sensed it. Slayer-sense, majorly mojofied after that spell Willow did, and I i knew /i something felt off. I should ask how. I mean, I should really ask how, 'cause _how _does this always end up happening?" Buffy is talking to herself, pacing the length of the kitchen floor as Andrew gets his breath back. "Can't anyone just stay dead?' she wails to the ceiling. "Or at least come back in a way less disruptive fashion, with maybe a messenger that doesn't trod all over me with steel-toed boots of general unpleasantness--"

"Buffy." Now Dawn is getting annoyed. Her lips are nearly pouting. "Who is non-dead?" She stops and re-thinks. "Or undead? Or alive again? Buffy, what the hell is going on!"

Buffy seems to inwardly crumble. "I'm not sure, Dawnie. But I think I have an idea. Dreams and portents and other things that tend to be foreshadowy and I really don't think I'm handling this at all the way you thought I would, am I?" Off Andrew's vehement 'nuh-uh', Buffy's mouth sets in a grim line. She squats next to Andrew. "Tell me how," she says quietly. "Tell me when. Tell me all of it."

And so he does. After they get him water for his throat and Buffy apologizes sheepishly for the attempted strangulation.

The story that follows is disjointed and hazy at best ("Wait, he was a ghost! Vampires can come back as _ghosts_ ?" and "Andrew, I don't _care_ if blood smells like the taste of tar and feet, what the hell happened next?" or "What do you _mean _he got his hands chopped off?) but miraculously, Buffy gets the main gist of it. She sits on the couch of her beautiful Roman home and envisions flying to L.A and killing Spike--again.

"Okay," she begins incredulously when Andrew is finished. "Let me get this straight. So first he sacrifices himself to close the Hellmouth--after denying a heartfelt declaration of--of perfectly legit _feelings_, the stupid jerk--and then he comes back as a ghosty thingamajig before some dude named Fred makes him all fleshy again. He _chooses_ to stay in L.A with Angel, who hates him worlds of a lot by the way, so he can help a whole bunch of people who could care less about him. He lets you tag along on his little jaunts and he gets _his _ hands chopped off by the crazy slayer. And yet...and yet, the most unbelievable part of that entire story is how he really, honestly, truly meant it when he told you not to tell me he was back. Because the Spike I knew would've been on the first cargo-hold Rome-bound the instant he was alive. Or...less dead. At the very least, the Spike _I _ knew wouldn't have dreamt of keeping this from me, 'cause he would've known that if he did, my fist? Would be meeting his face. Lots of pain involved."

Buffy's eyes flash thoughtfully. "Of course, I'd have to _ be _there to inflict said pain. Maybe a really hard noogie to start off with, it works so well with you and he really hates when people mess up his hair..." she trails off.

Buffy turns to face her sister and Andrew, both of whom are sitting in stunned silence.

"Well?" she demands. "What are you waiting for? We totally have a flight to book."

Dawn and Andrew exchange looks before Dawn rises and places a placating hand on Buffy's arm.

"Buff, come on, let's talk about this okay? I mean, we're all really glad that Spike's back--"

Andrew gives a barely surpressed shriek of happiness.

"--but it's something we have to think about before we go charging back to L.A, all jet-set and badass."

"What's there to think about?" Buffy demands, folding her arms. "There's no reason to have thoughts. We're going."

Dawn frowns. "Buffy, be reasonable. You wanted a break from California, remember? And to be honest, I need one, too. I like it here, and I don't think it's a good idea to go gallivanting around the world just 'cause dorkface here says Spike's back and non-evil."

"Non-evil? What's that supposed to mean? Of course he's non-evil, he got his hands chopped off for the greater good! And I'm not leaving you alone with i him /i ," Buffy says, pointing to Andrew. "He couldn't adequately protect a spoon. So you're only other option is Giles, land of tweed and tea."

Dawn scowls as she tries another tact. "Well, who says Spike even wants us there anyways? He told Andrew not to let you know he was back, didn't he?"

"Yeah, 'cause he's stupid," Buffy exclaims, as if it were obvious. "Look, Dawnie, I don't know why we're even arguing this. If Spike's back, I have to see him."

Dawn cocks her head. "But _why _?" she asks exasperatedly. "I totally get why you kept him around before--big with the Apocalypse and the need of able bodies, okay? But we're fine the way we are now, no Apocalypses as far as the eye can see, even. So why do you wanna go back to L.A and complicate your life again?"

Buffy is silent as she stares down her younger sister. "Because," she says finally. "That's who I am. Haver of the complicated life." She shrugs. "Unfinished business, Dawn. I'm really sick and tired of vampires thinking they know what's best for me. He gets to be a fun little surprise in _my_ life, but I don't get to call him out for wanting to keep it from me? Nope. No more Mr. Nice Buffy."

Dawn sighs. "I'm just worried about you," she says softly. "I know how intense things were with Spike, and how intense things were with Angel." Her tone is heavy with meaning. "They're both gonna be there, right in front of you in the same room. Two vampires with souls who came back from hell and are in love with _you _. And who both fight like little babies, if my fake memory serves me right."

"It does," Buffy makes a face, "And I am so not new to the awkward situations. But this is something I have to do, Dawn. I wouldn't feel right if I knew he was back and I hadn't gotten to say my piece." She brightens. "Besides, I'm not done baking yet, so things'll stay nice and simple.."

Dawn looks confused.

"Long story," Buffy says. "Don't worry, okay, honey? I'll be fine, things will be fine. We'll go in, see Spike, have the annual angstfest with Angel, then we're out in a flash. No one gets hurt. Or maimed, at any rate. I hope."

"Well, why do we have to go now, right this minute?" Dawn almost stamps her foot, but refrains. But only just.

"Because I _said _so! I'm so tired of Rome," Buffy says. "I need to be somewhere I can hear bad American pop that's not four years out of date, and I need ice in my drink. I need crappy California pizza, and icky L.A smog. I need to get out of here, and I need to see Spike." Off Dawn's crestfallen look, she scrambles for more incentive. "And you're right, there are no apocalypse as far as the eye can see. i Perfect /i time for a vacay, and maybe we can even get some action when we're there."

Off Dawn's raised eyebrow, Buffy clarifies, "Demon action." A beat. "Oh, for the love of God. Not that sort of action! Look, I'll let you kill stuff if you just agree to come along and stay off pout-mode."

Dawn glares a second more, but the allure of pointy weapons proves too strong. She sighs. "Fine. But I'm gonna be missing school."

Buffy grins and gives Dawn a hug. "Well, I missed tons of school when I was your age, and look how _I _ turned out!"

The sisters share a panicky look before Dawn reasons, "Well, I'm a little better off then you were. And I could always ask Paolo to tutor me."

Buffy's face is stern as she heads towards the kitchen phone to book tickets. "No more tutoring sessions with Paolo, okay? I just got here, I don't want the authorities looking into my criminal record already just because questionably hunky italian men start mysteriously disappearing."

Dawn's voice from the living room sounds huffy. "Spoil my fun!"

"I live for it, sweetie," Buffy calls cheerfully. She's surprised at how invigorated she feels, now that she has a purpose. Sure, Spike being back is a big surprise, and under normal circumstances, she probably would think more rationally before going off all half-cocked. But she's been bored half to death for the last few months, sitting in Italy without anything to do. A normal life, she thinks, is really overrated. And life with Spike was i never /i normal. A teeny part of her points out that there are other reasons she is hopping a plane in the middle of the week to see Spike. But she squelches that teeny part and refuses to deal with it. "Cookie dough," she tells herself firmly. " _Raw _ cookie dough."

Buffy forgoes the traditional flight plan and decides to use the powers and sources the new Council has given her. (That the new Council is run by Giles is totally a moot point, although she does have to rough a couple slayers up every now and then for not being discreet enough when they cough out, "Nepotism.") She doesn't look forward to the conversation she'll have with Giles, so she decides to skip it entirely and just call straight to transport.

"Hello, Jeeves," she says, putting on her thick, horribly-butchered English accent. Sometimes its fun to make life a little more surreal and annoying for Council phone operaters.

"Ah, hello Miss Summers," the man says dryly. "Mr. Giles informed me to expect a phone call from you."

"Really?" Buffy drops the accent as she asks curiously, "Why's that?"

"He had a chat with Mr. Wells this morning. Mr. Giles muttered something about hormones and vampires, and instructed me to get a plane ready should you call in a frenzy. By the by, Miss Summers, are you in a frenzy?"

"Just get me a jet, Jeeves," Buffy snaps peevishly, annoyed that Giles would know her so well, and i really /i pissed that he made that cheap shot about hormones. Just because _he _wasn't exactly rolling with the ladies...

"George," the man says. "The name's George, and your jet will be ready at the usual location by eight o'clock tonight. Good day, Miss Summers, and do try and remember vampires are usually a slayer's _nemesis_ , not their paramour."

With an indignant click, the phone is hung up. Buffy stares at her end for a moment in disbelief before slamming it down. "Stupid council jerk. Why didn't _he_ blow up, too?" she mutters, stalking out of the kitchen.

"Ah, George give you trouble?" Dawn asks sagely, her eyes now glued to the television. Her suitcase is already packed and lying at her feet.

Andrew pipes up. "He's a nice old chap, just a little bit stuck in the old ways. I once narrowly saved both of our lives with just a stake, a prayer, and a bottle of Evian--"

"Shut up, Andrew," Buffy says wearily. "How'd you pack so fast?" she demands of her younger sister. Dawn just smirks and shrugs, shoving her hand down the bag of popcorn wedged between her and Andrew.

Buffy sighs as she runs a hand through her hair and turns to peek into the mess that is her room. Flight, check. Plan, sort of check. Packed suitcase? She groans. Not even close.

It's two very long hours later that Buffy finally gets her suitcase to shut, and she silently says thanks that she has super-strength. 'Cause she's probably got enough clothes to put the entire cast of Sex and the City to shame. Not to mention the handbag filled with stakes that makes flying commercial airlines so hairy. She looks around, satisfied that her room is in proper order and that all the plants are good and watered. All that's left now is to decide what to wear.

Dawn shows up at the doorway. "Are you done yet? The cab's here." she asks in a long-suffering voice. "What are doing, packing for a week? You said it'd be quick, in-and-out, simple." Her eyes are suspicious.

"You can never be too prepared," Buffy says stiffly. "Now help me pick out what to wear." She holds up what's left of her closet and Dawn rolls her eyes.

"Wear that green skirt you just bought with the white off-the-shoulder top. It's cute and Spike liked your shoulders," Dawn says thoughtfully. "And wear the black heels so you won't be glaring i up /i to him, you'll be glaring _almost _level to him. You'll look a lot more intimidating." She turns to put her bags into the cab waiting downstairs.

"I look _plenty _intimidating now, missy!" Buffy calls after her, but slips on the black heels anyways. Once she's dressed, she holds up jer leather jacket and stops to think.

"Cookie dough," she says desperately to her reflection, smoothing down her hair. "I don't care what I look like," she chants, "I'm gonna put on this jacket because I'm not trying to lure any stupid back-from-Hell vampires into a sticky web of seduction." She cocks her head critically. "But he really _did _ like my shoulders," she muses.

In the end, she drapes the jacket over her arm, hauls the suitcase into the cab, endures a tearful goodbye from Andrew, and she and her little sister drive towards a jet that will take them half a world away into the deep unknown.

She's filled with anxious, nervous dread, but if there's one thing she hates, it's vampires with souls who like to decide what's best for her. Now it's i her /i turn to make some decisions, and while Angel and Spike may like to believe it's their home-turf, Buffy smiles, she knows better.

Soon, they will too.


	2. Chapter 2

---

The thing about impulses, Buffy muses as the jet plane flies farther away from sanity and closer to destination crazyland, is that it's easy to forget how _stupid_ they are in the heat of the moment. Her fingers are white as they grip the hem of her skirt, and her left leg is jiggling incessantly. They've been flying for eleven hours, with a pit stop in God know's where somewhere between Italy and L.A, and it's all Buffy can do to even close her eyes. She's too jittery to sleep.

_Why_ did she think it was a good idea to fly around the world and confront not one, but _both_ of her ex-boyfriends? To be fair, Spike's not technically an ex-boyfriend, more like an ex-_bed_friend, but still, the sentiment's there--maybe even more so then her deal with Angel. After all, Buffy is used to the annual merry-go-round of broody woe and angst that Angel seems to be a permanent rider on. It's this new breed of melancholy with Spike that she's so confused about. Run of the mill grief is complicated when the object of your mourning is suddenly back, and second chances aren't so out of the question anymore.

Buffy groans silently. The two stupid vamps meant something to her once, and still do. Seeing them both all sexy and leathery and fighting-evil-y is not going to be good for her cookie-dough vow. Her original plan of fly first, see Spike, think later? Not so good.

She sighs for what must be the millionth time since her journey started sixteen hours ago. Buffy probably should have taken more time to plan, to strategize, to carefully suss out what's gotta be said once she gets to Wolfram&Hart, but the whole thinking aspect of the gig has always been someone else's forte. She almost wishes Giles was here to tell her what to do, but all she would get out of him on this one is a disapproving look and that annoying clearing-throat sound he makes before he says something he knows she won't appreciate.

"Blah," Buffy pouts. "Blah, blah, and more blah." She sighs again before being elbowed in the ribs by Dawn. "Ow!" she cries. "Hey!" She rubs the aching spot gingerly, glaring at her lightly-dozing sister.

Dawn jabs her unnaturally bony elbow into Buffy's tender ribcage once again, not even bothering to open her eyes.

"Okay, is there some sort of rule that says you have to shove all your lanky and awkward parts everywhere and invade my personal space?" Buffy complains. "Because I have this invisible line that you're crossing, and my god, you have _extremely_ sharp elbows."

"You're like Little Miss Stormcloud," Dawn grumbles, shifting slightly and pillowing her head against Buffy's shoulder. "Stop obsessing over how much you wish you'd never had this dumb idea--and by the way, told you so--and just enjoy the ride. We can always just fly back when things get chaotic."

The pessimistic gene, Buffy is not surprised to find out, seems to indeed run through the Summers bloodline.

"If, Dawnie," Buffy absently corrects, patting Dawn's head, "_If_ they get chaotic."

Dawn giggles sleepily. "For someone who knows chaotic so well, you really do have a hard time recognizing it from a mile away, don't you?" Buffy swats Dawn's arm playfully before bringing the complimentary airline blanket up and tucking it around both their shoulders. Dawn snuggles closer and is soon snoring gently, her little nose scrunched up as drool gathers against the corner of her lip.

Just for the chaotic comment, Buffy doesn't plan on pointing out the accumulating saliva, or the really bad airplane bedhead to Dawn when she wakes up. But Buffy _does_ grudgingly admit that, while her little sister may be annoying in a way that ends all annoyances, she has a point. There's no point in worrying how things are gonna be once they land. Chaos will come no matter what Buffy does or doesn't do.

It's just the way her life goes.

Marginally reassured in a vaguely depressing way, Buffy sighs one more time and lets her head drop lightly against Dawn's. She may as well get some sleep before the coming light. She's found that being well-rested gives her the extra edge of patience needed when it comes to dealing with huge, inflated, easily-bruised egos. And at least she has some prior experience in this whole deal.

She gives a fond chuckle. Who is she kidding--feuding vampires with whom she has a complicated history? This is something she knows better than the back of a well-aimed fist.

It's good to be going back home.

With this thought, Buffy gives up and sinks into a heavy sleep, full of wonderful, non-Slayery dreams of Fred Seigel and Barney's and oooh, that really nice cafe on the corner of Greenview and Main that she used to get a croissant and coffee from every day of freshman year.

The sky outside is a light violet when Buffy's finally jarred out of her restful dreams, and Dawn is leaning across her to stare out the window longingly.

"California," the girl whimpers, and Buffy strokes her hair, silently marvelling at the sight below. The sky around them is bright indigo, and the rising sun fans soft yellow rays over the familiar arrangement of California land that makes Buffy's throat ache when she sees it. She's forgotten the briney tang of California ocean breeze, the warm press of sandy beaches against her bare feet and the golden-brown sheen of oil-slicked skin just waiting to bake in the hot sun. She's forgotten bright blue skies and the mad rush of the freeway and tall, gorgeous palm trees with fronds as green as the well-manicured lawns of her residential neighborhood. She's forgotten how much she loves this place, how much she's ached for it.

"California," Buffy agrees, breathing in deeply. She gives Dawn's hand a squeeze and whispers, "California."

As if on cue, a voice crackles over the speaker in the cabin. "Ladies," the pilot intones, "We're flying over California airspace and will be arriving shortly at the Council location--"

"Which remains undisclosed, due to the disease of appalling _paranoia_ the stuffy set still suffers from," Dawn grumbles.

"--so I suggest you put your seatbelts on and prepare to land. Wouldn't want to be responsible for any Slayer injuries, would we, Pete?"

The co-pilot chuckles nastily before the intercom shuts off.

Buffy raises an eyebrow as the jet slowly begins its descent. "Gee," she says to Dawn, clicking her seatbelt closed, "With personalities like that, I have to wonder why Council employees can't find gainful employment in the burgeoning field of customer service."

"Would you like secrecy, lies, and disapproval with your Big Mac?" Dawn mocks, fastening her seatbelt with a snap.

"And a side-order of tweed, please, Jeeves," Buffy grins.

"It's _George_!" Both sisters exclaim after a beat, breaking into silent snickers. The jet plane gives an answering lurch, and the girls shut up, sharing twin looks of mirth as that familiar swoop in their stomachs begins to take hold.

When the plane finally lands (none-too-gently, Buffy observes, as Dawn's face turns slightly green), it rolls gently to a stop on a strip of runway overlooking the ocean.

She almost rips her seatbelt in half in her haste to get out of her seat.

The air in California, Buffy decides, is the best air _ever_. Screw the dirty, bustly, European air of Italy. This is good old fashioned _American_ smog. Buffy takes a deep breath and closes her eyes as she drags her suitcase down the metal stairs leading to the ground below. Smells like burgers and exhaust and sunshine, and oh, god, _high school_. Both high schools, the one where she was a spoiled rich girl and the one where she was the slayer. It smells like hope and excitement, and something familiar like--

"Doughnuts!" Buffy's eyes snap open and she stumbles the last few steps to the ground, letting her carryon fall with a thump. Pastries and cannolis, etc., etc...those are all well and good. But Krispy Kremes? They can make a girl go crazy.

Dawn pushes past Buffy with a muffled shriek, diving at the impeccably-dressed man holding a giant box of frosty goodness.

Or they can make a girl go crazi_er_, Buffy scowls, hoisting herself up and resigning herself to the fact that all the jelly doughnuts will be gone in point two seconds flat. As little as Dawn is, she eats like a friggin' beast. But that's okay, because for the first time in almost six years, Buffy's putting on weight and it _shows_. And she _likes_ it.

And by the look in Mr. Armani's eyes, their chauffeur likes it, too.

Buffy saunters to the doughnut box held in his hands and gives him a bright smile. He just gives a curt, nervous nod, and holds the box in shaking hands. Buffy smirks; good to know she still has _some_ reputation.

She peers into the box just as Dawn gives an impatient yell from the seriously choice car that is waiting for them. Buffy sighs. Limo or doughnut? Pastry of sugary wonder or air-condition and surround-sound American music and oh, god, roads _without Vespas_!

Doughnut time will have to wait.

Reaching for the box hastily, she says, "Thanks, Je--"

"If you say Jeeves, madame, I am instructed to withhold the doughnuts indefinitely." The box moves a millimeter away.

Buffy blinks. She looks to Dawn, who in turn, looks perplexed. "George?" she mouths, shrugging. Purple jelly is smeared inelegantly across her lower lip.

"Thanks...George?" Buffy tries. The box jerks another millimeter away. Buffy sighs again. "Okay, I bite. Or more like, I wish to bite, so let's play the name game. As in, what's yours?"

"Mitchell, madame," the man says pleasantly. "Mr. Giles says to reward you with this box and that I'm to tell you how fostering a friendly Council-Slayer relationship is indeed fruitious in the quest for baked goods." He frowns. "Mr. Giles does not always make sense, I'm afraid."

Buffy gives a wry grin and balances the box of doughnuts, the carryon in the other. "It's a habit of his," she says. She shoos Mitchell away to the driver's seat and hoists her own carryon into the trunk, however light it is. It's good to be out and about again, doing some labor of the physical sense. Her fingers itch for a well-made, balanced stake, and she thinks wistfully of graveyards and fledglings.

She almost giggles as she slides into the leather of the Rolls-Royce, resting her head back against the plush seats. Once upon a time she thought wistfully of everything _but_ graveyards and fledglings. Once upon a time, she wanted to be a normal girl. With age comes wisdom, Buffy guesses, and she's finally old enough to be smart enough to know the truth of her life.

Normal is way overrated.

Dawn thrusts the doughnut box in front of Buffy's face. There's a gooey, glazed pastry of tastiness, tempting her with it's sticky siren's call. She reaches in and pulls it out gingerly, holding it up almost reverently. Licking her lips, she gazes at it for a long moment. "You and me," she tells it seriously, "Have a lot of catching up to do."

Then the doughnut is pretty much history, and Buffy is chewing away, gazing out the tinted car window and taking in the passing scenery as Mitch starts to drive. They drive relatively peacefully for a while until the car lurches and swerves off the road, onto the narrow shoulder. A litany of horns and shouts greet their ears and Buffy rolls her eyes. Good ol' L.A freeway, big with the impending vehicularly-caused deaths. And here she was thinking that Rome had been bad with the traffic and asshole drivers with their lewd comments and their stupid candy-apple red scooters.

A car behind them beeps its horn and Buffy makes out an R-rated comment or two.

Dawn grabs her arm. "Oh, please, can I?" she asks, and Buffy just sighs, making a 'go-ahead' gesture. The glass is at once rolled down and then Dawn is gesticulating wildly out the window, meeting the angry shouts with some choice words of her own. There is silence for a moment, then one last yell from both sides, before the other car peels away.

Dawn leans back into the limo, satisfied. "Drive on, Mitchy," she calls cheerfully. The car navigates back onto the freeway carefully, and Buffy looks at her little sister.

"You are very scary," Buffy says solemnly. "And I didn't even know Italians _had_ a word for doing that action to that body part."

Dawn grins. "I've been educated pretty well," she shrugs, then goes back to happily bopping away to whatever drivel was previously playing on the radio.

"Madame?" Mitch asks. "Where would you like to be going?"

Buffy shrugs. "It's still light, so hanging out with the creepy-crawlies is out," she says. " And I really don't wanna deal with the reason we're actually here...not just yet. I thought maybe first, we could go to the hotel where Giles reserved a room for us, and then afterwards, maybe the mall."

Dawn clutches her arm. "Shopping," she all but gasps. "Oh, please, _shopping_. I need some non-Eurotrash style sitting in my closet. _Please_ say we're gonna be doing a lot of shopping."

Buffy nods slowly, leaning back again. "Hotel first, though," she says thoughtfully. "It'll be good with the shower, the nap, the non-doughnut-y sustenance."

"Jet lag isn't any easier for a Slayer," Dawn pipes up sagely. Her eyes are now glued to the scenery outside, the cars whizzing by and the palm trees swaying in the breeze. The look on her face is contented rapture, and for the first time in a while, it strikes Buffy that maybe she's not the only one who's missed home so much. Buffy reaches a hand out to stroke Dawn's hair and vows that visits like this will happen more often.

"What happens after the recuperation, though?" Buffy asks, more to herself than anyone. "I mean...yeah, we have to go to Wolfram & Hart...eventually." She laughs nervously. "But--but it's okay that it's not on the agenda right this second, right? Even though I made with the crazy and we pretty much flew light-speed out of Italy? I just--I'm getting a case of the coldest of feet. Maybe I wasn't so ready as I thought to see him. Them."

Dawn looks at Buffy for a long minute. "It's fine," she says finally. "Wolfram & Hart can be on the agenda whatever time you want it to be. This is your game now, Buff. Not theirs." She gives a knowing smile. "I know how much it grates you that they're always the one's dropping in with the surprises. I get that you wanted to drop in with one of your own, your own way. And, if it helps, I think your arrival really will throw everyone for a loop."

"Good." Then Buffy furrows her brow. "A loop? Just a loop?"

Dawn sighs. "Buffy. Angel's up and up with the big, bad lawyers. And if Andrew's right, and when it comes to the bleached-blond love of his life, the little freak usually is, now Spike is involved, too. You gotta wonder if they're as invested in you as you seem to be in them. Like, would they leave their happy playground of evildom just to fly around the world and see you? I mean, through it all, how come neither of them ever bothered to send one eensy little phonecall your way asking how _your_ apocalypse went?"

Buffy looks put out. "Oh, come on," she says skeptically. "To be fair, it'd be insensitive for me to ask Spike to do that--him, uh, being the reason my apocalypse, you know, _went_ in the first place. And the whole Angel situation, well, look. He's got his deal and I've got mine, and hello--we've danced that dance for what, seven years now? So he doesn't pine anymore, so what? And okay, he doesn't even have the time for a lousy phonecall-- what does that prove, other than that he is still grossly inadequate at this 'being friends' thing? And Spike, well, I'm sure he's got a perfectly good reason for...you know, not calling, and not believing me when I told him I---" Buffy stops with difficulty, "--and, and telling Andrew not to tell me he was even back--" Buffy stops again and when she finally speaks, her voice is marginally softer. "Oh. _Oh_. It's...it's not about me anymore, is it? With them? With either of them?" She sighs. "That's what you're trying to tell me."

"Buffy," Dawn chides gently. "It'll always be about you to them. It's just that life moves on, and you've been in Rome, and Angel's got his apocalyptic law firm to run, and who knows what's going on in Spike's ginormous head? I'm just saying, you have to be ready for the possibility that our welcome back party may not be so...welcoming."

Buffy takes a deep breath and nods. "I get that," she says honestly. "And I'm not expecting big smoochies or anything." Off Dawn's skeptical brow, "Hey, don't look at me like I have no willpower of my own, I'm not addicted to vampire lips, okay? I just think, in my world, when someone comes back from Hell--or Heaven--there's a reason. And I didn't want to be avoidy-girl with the drama that is overabundant. 'Cause then maybe I'd miss the importance of that reason, you know?"

Dawn gives Buffy's hand a squeeze. "Giles would be so proud of you," she says. "Ignoring those hormonal impulses and coming here for the greater good."

Buffy laughs. "Hey," she says, shrugging. "I'm nothing if not sacrificial."

Dawn rolls her eyes. "Yeah, okay."

Then they lapse into a comfortable silence as the limo drives along, and Buffy lets herself relax, tells herself there's no pressure or expectations awaiting her. If she closes her eyes and thinks hard enough, she can almost believe it's true.

The hotel, when they get there, is a welcome sight. The limo drives up to the entrance and Buffy can feel the eyes of every tourist on the block staring through the tinted windows. She toys with the idea of slipping her Gucci sunglasses out of her purse and stepping out of the limo like she's someone who matters, but the inclination is gone within a second. She's okay being just Buffy. Took her a couple (okay, several) years to get to that point, but she's here, now. Just a little LA girl at heart, an unnatural blond, and maybe a few point short of the super-highest IQ ever, but she can kick someone's ass like there's no tommorrow. That's gotta be worth something to be proud about.

Buffy reasons that it still wouldn't hurt to beam a sunny smile and send a perky wave towards the Hawaiian-print-wearing, bucket-hat-having couple standing in the parking lot. They take some furiously snapped pictures with their camera and then Buffy is hoisting her suitcase up again, looking critically at the small, garishly-decorated building in front of her.

"Plastic hollywood sign on the front, tacky inflatable palm trees, archway of christmas lights," Buffy mutters. "I am going to _kill_ Giles."

They say goodbye to Mitch at the door and Buffy promises to call him once they want to go back out. One of the perks of being employed by the Council is the nifty cell-phone they've gifted her. She's finally on the up and up enough to use one, but she's stoked that Mitch's number is already programmed in, because she's still shaky with the technology. Another sign of how out-of-touch she's been all these years, and Buffy is so impatient to start _living_ again.

Dawn gives an impatient huff of her own at Buffy's tragic lack of cool as they stroll to the front desk to check in.

Hotel clerks, Buffy is displeased to discover, are pretty much the same worldwide. Rude, abrasive, and generally big with the 'I'm so much better than you' vibe. It's like being around Cordelia again. Buffy wrinkles her nose. Huhn. Cordelia and her whole business-partner thing with Angel. Another thing that is weirder than weirdness. Another thing she'll have to deal with.

Buffy shakes out of it. But not now, she reminds herself. Shower, nap, shoes. In that order. _Then_ the awkwardness that is my life. She thanks the clerk with an icy smile and then she and Dawn head to their room.

It's smaller than tiny apartment in Rome, and definitely shabbier, but there are no unidentifiable stains to be seen, and they get free cable. So Buffy reasons that this is a good enough compromise and leaps onto the bed, sighing as she sinks into the soft mattress.

"You know," Buffy says, her voice muffled as she speaks into her extra-fluffy pillow, "I should be mad that I chickened out of going to Wolfram & Hart right away. I mean, I got pretty for nothing." Her silky green skirt and cute little top, worn so eagerly (and transparently) for the sole purpose of making a certain someone's eyes bug out, are pretty much useless now--dirty, wrinkled, smelling like stale airplane air. Too bad. She'd had big plans for the outfit.

Funny how quickly her head had spun with slow-mo images of big, blue eyes widening appreciatively--

Buffy blushes. Okay, so no more intricate fantasy-weaving for her. Stupid hopeful feelings, she thinks ruefully. Getting all big and built-up, and when you see him, he'll probably stammer a lot and run. Or _you'll_ muck it up like a giant mucky _thing_ and he'll be all, 'Why don't you just run along back to the land of piazzas and parmesan, Slayer?' and it'll suck just as bad as you deserve it to 'cause you treated him like crap for so long and didn't really realize how much he meant to you till he decided to let himself catch on _fire_--

Her inner dialogue stops mid-rant when Dawn lands on the bed beside her. "Well," her little sister says, "Just change into jeans and a tee-shirt, then. I did. You can always buy another dressier outfit when we go out shopping. And then afterwards, maybe we can hit up a club or something--the discos in Italy are seriously wack and I've been jonesing to get down with some good old American pop for awhile."

Buffy sighs. "Fine," she says wearily, dragging herself up.

"Maybe you'll even meet someone," Dawn suggests brightly. "Someone cute and non-fangy. Though, knowing you, he'll still have mega issues."

Buffy throws a pillow at Dawn as she heads to the bathroom to shower and change.

Maybe she _will_ meet someone, she thinks, as she steps into the shower, but she has this nasty suspicion that it won't help any when it comes to forgetting--or getting over--the issues that have been plaguing her all summer. Namely one issue in particular, with pale skin, bleached hair, and a penchant for dark clothing. She lathers her hair and sighs, glad that Dawn can't hear her now and do something wholly obnoxious, like flush the toilet.

Buffy shakes the water of her eyes and gives a frustrated grumble. Annoyingly enough, she's feeling a lot like Spike must have early in the throes of his super-fun obsession with her. Every thought and belly rumble she has is a reminder that soon enough, she's going to see _him_ again. And while to an extent it's about both of her exes, it's_him_ she's most eager to see again. She wants to drink in his chiseled features and smirky grin...but she's also afraid.

Because unlike the last time she saw him, if she declares her love at some startlingly innappropriate second, he won't just poof and die. He'll stick around and maybe break her heart. While the first vampire who broke her heart stands by and watches. Maybe they'll compare notes.

"Bufffffyyyy," Dawn calls. "Stop daydreaming Spike and Angel daydreams and come take a nap! We've got a lot of ground to cover tonight. Two words: Jimmy Choo!"

Buffy, changed and newly clean, opens the door fast and marvels at how quickly little sisters throw things into perspective. What's a little thing like a broken heart when new shoes are in the picture?

The bed is warm and the sunshine warmer against Buffy's cheek when she sinks into her second nap of the day. Her hand curls around her little sister's and she squeezes, thanking whoever it is up there that she will have this girl, who loves her so unconditionally, standing by her side when she confronts the prodigal vamps. She has a feeling she's gonna need all the support she can get, she thinks sleepily, as she drifts off.

When Buffy dreams of staking a vampire with a brand-new pair of Malano Blahnik stilettos, she knows it's time to wake up. The afternoon sun casts a shadow across the room as she opens an eye drowsily, her limbs still wonderfully heavy with sleep. She mumbles a little and stretches, her hand brushing her hair out of her eyes as she sits up slowly.

"Whazzat?" Dawn snorts in her sleep. "The footnotes have fangs!"

Buffy watches bemusedly as Dawn shoots up in a stupor, her hair in messy whorls, staticky against her cheek. "All right there, slugger?" she says thickly. "No more doing research for the Council past midnight for you, it's eating your brains."

Dawn whimpers and rubs her eyes. "Footnotes. Aramaic. Eating brains." She looks to Buffy. "I need to burn some plastic."

And so they do.

The mall that Mitch takes them to when Buffy calls is standard mall fare--crowded, bustling, and aromatic with that distinct food court/body lotion/cookie store smell. Dawn takes a big breath as soon as she crosses the threshold, and then she tugs Buffy's hand and they're off, practically running to the directory to inspect the offerings.

"Oooh, Charlotte Russe and Urban Outfitters!" Dawn squeals. "I've been dying for something that truly screams apathetic american teenager. Which means--lots and lots of torn denim!"

"Nevermind that," Buffy says gleefully, "Anne's _Pretzels_!" The sisters turn to each other and grin. Itay had been great in terms of high-style fashion and zoomy motorcycles and hot, if innappropriate, Italian men. But there really is nothing quite like the American mall experience.

The two spend five hours at the mall, window-shopping, shopping-shopping, and occasionally taking the odd picture or three of a tourist in particularly garish garb. It's a game that they've played in every country they've been in since Sunnydale fell into a hole. Travelling the world has afforded them some truly entertaining pictures of some truly frightening get-ups. These snapshots will find themselves in their album upon returning to Rome, and Buffy finds herself giggling at the perverseness of the Summers concept of 'souvenirs.'

They finally collapse onto a bench outside the mall, pooped out and weary, going over their respective loot. Buffy sits watching the evening sky bleed a beautiful red-violet when Dawn thumbs through one picture in particular.

"Wow," she whistles. "Who is this piece of big yum?" Buffy rolls her eyes but leans over with interest, inspecting the picture Dawn has plucked out of their pile.

The guy is tall and slender, with pale skin, pale hair, and dark eyebrows, and a grouchy expression on his face. It's the disaffected look of a model looking for a job (or a sandwich) and Buffy's breath leaves her for a second at how familiar that scowl is. The white-blonde hair and sun-starved skin, the hollow cheekbones, the way he's captured in swaggery mid-walk--all that she can ignore. But the way this man's lips curl is so reminiscent of Spike, that Buffy can't speak.

Knowing Spike's alive and being confronted with it face-to-face are two very different things. She doesn't really know what she'll do when she finally sees him, touches him (not that she'll touch him innappropriately, or anything), talks to him--she's only ever dreamt of it before.

In a few hours--or tommorrow--or never--she'll live it.

"Buff?" Dawn asks. "What's wro--" Dawn looks down at the picture and understanding settles in. "Oh." She squints harder at the picture. "_Oh._"

Buffy sighs, tugging at the bag of clothes she has just bought, not even solaced by their glittery newness.

"That's it," Dawn says firmly. "You're turning into Angel. All brood, all the time. The moment of reckoning will come, Buffy, but it's not here yet! The night is young and I don't think we'll be seeing any of your exes at the places I plan to go tonight. So, up and at 'em, missy. We're going dancing!"

Buffy gives a feeble protest as Mitch drives up in his severely obtrusive limo. But the look in Dawn's eyes rouse her from her gloom. She's young and fit, dammit, there is no reason she should be pining after immortals, anyway! She should be _happy_ to go dancing.

"Okay, Mitch," Dawn says once they're situated in the car, "Take us to the first club you see."

And with those ominous words, the limo is off, navigating the freeway with all the ease of the Batmobile. "Wow," Buffy says, impressed, "Council cars. Big with the speed."

"And that's not the only thing that's gonna be going a little fast tonight," Dawn deadpans, giving a mock-leer. Buffy grimaces.

"Worlds of ew," she says, disgusted. "Your procreation plans are something off-limits in terms of discussion. As in, you better not have any plans, end of said discussion."

Dawn shrugs. "Fine. Cramp my style."

Buffy grins and turns to look out the window. When she's safely ensconced in the whole joke-with-her-sister thing, she can forget about the world outside. She's still pissed about the Spike and Angel situation, but she's also vulnerable to them. Shockingly so, _still_. Getting her bearings and really diving into a fun, girly night of dancing may be just what she needs before she's hard-ass slayer, jilted-lover Buffy once more.

"Here we are, madames," Mitch announces, as the car rolls up to the entrance of a swank-looking club.

"Dawnie, are you sure we--" Buffy starts, worried about how much it'll cost to even get in there, let alone pay for drinks.

"Council credit card," Dawn reminds her. "And neither of us are doing the alcohol thing, so it's just your standard water and soda deal. We won't be spending a lot, and more importantly, we won't be spending _our_ money, so..."

"Let's get in there," Buffy finishes firmly. They say goodbye to Mitch and crawl out of the limo, and Buffy cringes at the whispers and shouts that sweep through the line to the entryway. Not only do they look totally lame coming out of a limo dressed like high school kids out for a night of forbidden fun (nevermind that this is exactly what Dawn is) but they also will have to wait in line for_ever_ just to get in.

"Who is that?" Buffy hears the trendy types whisper. "Is that the girl from that awful B-movie? What was it, Scooby Doo?"

"Nah," her companion says, "That chick was a redhead. This one's straight blonde."

Buffy scowls as she and Dawn hit the back of the line. Fat load of info they know, she huffs, I'm a natural brunette. So hah!

"Dawnie," she says, "What's the name of this club anyway?"

"Cat and Fiddle," Dawn replies, craning her neck. "The high-power, rich-people type of club from what we're seeing in line. But hey, if we're on Council dime, we may as well appreciate it, right?"

"Too true, sister mine," Buffy says absently. Something has caught her eye. A person in line a few feet ahead of them. He looks unsettlingly familiar. "Hey, Dawn?" She tugs her sister's sleeve. "Look at that guy up there. The one in the brown coat and the turtleneck."

Dawn looks, her eyes narrow as she tries to put a name on him. "Yeah, what about him?"

"Does he look...like we should, I dunno, know him?" Buffy's stomach is doing that _oh crap_ thing again.

The man turns to his companion, a pretty dark-haired girl. There's a tall black man standing next to him, and--and a green-skinned guy! With horns?

"_Damn_." Buffy closes her eyes. She's heard the odd description or two of the LA gang from Willow, and the one that stands out the most? Yeah. Green-skinned guy with horns. And alongside him, the black guy named Gunn, and the girl is probably Fred. Which makes the man--

"Buffy, what?" Dawn asks anxiously. "Who is it?"

Blue eyes lock into Buffy's own hazel ones. An eyebrow arches up and everything falls away for a second. Buffy is thrust four years back into her past, when she was a senior in high school and this guy was just a namby-pamby authority figure. Now she's come back from the dead and he's got a vicious scar peeking out from his turtleneck, and Buffy has a feeling things have changed.

The man says something to his companion and steps out of line, coming towards them.

Buffy steels herself for a confrontation she's not ready for.

"Buffy, Dawn," he acknowledges, when he's finally in front of her and Dawn, who's jaw has dropped.

"Wesley." Buffy says in a defeated voice. "Fancy meeting you here."

And this, she thinks wearily, as Wesley's friends (minus the two people she's actually _here_ to see) come to join them, is probably the start of a very long night.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Yay, chapter three! Not a lot of plot movement here, either, and the surprise guest is mostly thrown in for my amusement, but there you go. But it's fun. Lots of fun. So read...please!

- - -

Wesley does the steely-eyed, covert, head-bob thing that Buffy takes to mean, "Let's get out of the queue, for methinks the general populace would not take kindly to your inevitable hysterics." Just on principle, Buffy huffs before allowing Dawn to tug her out of line. Not that Wesley would know, but she hasn't been prone to hysterics in a really, really long time, thanks very much. Buffy folds her arms and looks up at him and his ragtag team of assorted lackeys. What does he think is gonna happen? Small-talk and then some variation of dismemberment?

"And how have you been?" Wesley asks, genially enough. "Nice journey, I presume? On the Council dollar?"

Okay, fine, the small-talk had to be inevitable, but Buffy's trying very hard not to let this situation escalate into body-choppy areas. Not easy with the snippy tone Wesley's taking, but Buffy's always been a trooper.

"Life's been just great, Wes," Buffy deadpans, "I mean, between the vampires always big with the rising and the army of slayers we have to train and those annoying bad hair days, life's just _peachy_ with the keen."

"Good, good." Wesley nods absently. "So what brings you to town, then?" His eyes sharpen and Buffy detects a hint of suspicion and hostility in his tone, underneath the standard briskness of a Watcher (or _ex_-Watcher, she thinks sort of gleefully) talking to a wayward Slayer. She's about to say something vague and cutting when Dawn beats her to the response.

"None of your beeswax, buddy," Dawn says, her tone subtly challenging, her gaze cool. "Well, maybe a bit of your beeswax, but only 'cause you're part of the whole evil law-firm conspiracy, hellfire and brimstone and all! You're never gonna breach the pearly gates now, you know. I mean lawyers are already destined for sticky ends, but add the breaking-bread-with-demons thing to it and you're pretty much done for. Consorting with tainted blood, y'know? It's _never_ good."

Buffy slants an odd look to her sister, a little freaked out at her weirdo religious posturing. After all, Buffy has _slept_ with demons. _Two_. And _she's_ breached the pearly gates, which to be fair, defy any real description but are more gold than pearly if one _has_ to be all poetic--

"No more talking, okay?" Buffy interrupts her own mental ramblings and scowls at her sister sternly. "Sorry," she apologizes to the others, who look sort of amused, actually. Like people must tell them they're going to hell all the time. Buffy fidgets and begins to speak again reluctantly, because Wes is still looking at her like she's toe-jam or something equally as horrible. "Dawn likes to talk to Sister Enza on the corner every morning, and I'm thinking her brain's started to leak idiocy at random intervals. I mean, _I_ don't think you're necessarily going to hell..." She trails off. "Or at least, not all of you. _Really_." she adds, earnestly.

Wesley's left eyebrow does that raise, the one that is so utterly English that is makes Buffy want to scream. Giles pulls it out whenever she's being 'particularly worrisome,' but the only worrisome Buffy can see at this moment is the fact that she's now a second away from punching that smarmy expression off Wesley's face in an extremely public environment. His entire countenance just screams "you don't belong, little girl," and God, Buffy's had enough of male posturing and stupid British guys and smirky little smiles. She's tired and she wants to speak with Angel and kiss Spike, not have a fun session of kick-the-Slayer with the Watcher who made Andrew look positively macho.

Besides--she's definitely _not_ a little girl anymore.

"Oh good," Buffy sighs, trying to reign in her temper, because insanity in a public place? _So_ Faith. "You're going all Watcher-y on me, although I gotta say, you're four years way too late on that one, buddy. Soon it'll be ineffectual order-giving and possibly some manly screams as I give you a noogie."

For a moment, Buffy's almost afraid of the dark look that sifts over Wesley's features at the mention of his failure as a Watcher. Foot-in-mouth syndrome hits again, she thinks ruefully, but then the tension eases and a smile relaxes the lines of Wesley's face.

"Touche," he says amiably. "I suppose we _are_ rather past that stage in our relationship. No need for violence, I suppose, nor do we have anything to prove to one another any longer." He gives a wry shrug. "There are those who _will_ say my manly scream is much improved, however."

The black guy laughs at this and claps his hand onto Wesley's shoulder. "Damn straight, man," he chuckles and then he extends a hand to Buffy. "I'm Charles Gunn," he says, "Charles if that's your style, but never Chuck, Charlie, or _Shaft_--" he breaks off and looks at the green demon, who just waves his martini around dismissively, "--otherwise, you can call me Gunn."

Buffy grins and takes his hand. "You have a very cool name," she solemnly says as she squeezes. She likes his easy-going nature and his cute smile. If he was a little bit more dead, she would probably even be awfully attracted to him.

Gunn winces as he takes back his hand. "And you have a real, uh--_cool_ grip." He shakes it a bit. "Slayer strength. I'd be down with that once the vamps come runnin'."

Buffy shrugs. "That's sorta the point," she informs him. "To be down with--okay, I shouldn't ever attempt to be cool. It never works." Then she turns to the girl. "You must be Winifred, right? Willow's said a lot of great things about you."

The girl blushes. "Um, hello, hi, Willow was--heh, well, you just tell Willow I liked her lots, too. You can--you can call me Fred, though, 'cause Winifred has this way of not rolling of the tongue quite right. It's interesting, you know, Fred seems to throw people off a bit, too, which I suppose I can really understand, seeing as I'm a girl and Fred's traditionally a boy's name, right? Right, but I figure that it's not so much a problem when I'm standing right here in front of you, 'cause you know, it's sorta obvious to see that I'm a girl and _not_ a boy, although with more androgynous fellas--or ladies, it's harder to tell. Why, I once knew--"

"Fred," Buffy says, holding her hands up. "It's a good name. No judging. My name's Buffy, okay? I totally get what it's like to have the unusual name complex." A thought sounds in her brain. "_Fred_. Or the 'attractively bird-boned woman with the bountiful head of hair,' according to Andrew. Were you...were you the one who brought Spike back to form?"

Fred looks startled and the others exchange glances. "How did you--"

"And _my_ name, blonde and brawn, is Lorne," the green demon interrupts, handing off his martini to a spooked-looking Fred and shoving a bemused Wes out of the way. "You and I haven't properly met, but I'd know a girl with destiny anywhere. You're a Slayer, hmm? I'm gonna bet you have a nice set of pipes under that golden throat. Lung support is _key_ and you're healthier than the very healthiest horse on the farm, aren't you? I'd love to hear you belt out a coupla tunes when you can, dear heart, because kiddos like you have just got destiny written loud and clear all over your aura."

Buffy blinks. "Hi," she says. Then, helpfully, "You're a demon."

"An empath," he says smoothly, and then he's taking her hand in his, peering right into her eyes. "You've got a nice strong sense about you right now, in fact, a little maiming here, a little apocalypse there. But there's something else shining right through, and sweetling, we're gonna take care of that _real_ soon." He clutches her hand gently. "But not now," he says meaningfully.

Buffy registers that. An empath. Singing. This was the bar owner--the demon whose home dimension Angel had just returned from that summer Willow went to LA to tell Angel about her death. Shivers run up her spine. She won't think about that, not now that she's finally happy to be here again. She tries to think about what he said instead. 'Something else shining right through' and 'taking care of that real soon.' Yay, the language of coded destiny, straight from the demon's mouth.

It'll be about Spike, she thinks. Or Angel. Because she certainly doesn't forsee any more great loves in her destiny-laden life. She _hopes_.

Dawn is introducing herself to everyone now, and Buffy is interested, and a little perturbed, to see that Gunn is giving Dawn that Look. The Look that says, 'Okay, so I'm gonna pretend I'm not looking at you like you're a hot piece of teenage lovin', 'cause that'd make me a very bad, bad old man.'

Buffy gives Gunn the fish eye for a second after her little sister disengages her hand from his. Gunn looks down at Buffy's knuckles cracking and he twitches before looking studiously away.

With an inward cackle, Buffy takes Wesley's hand and gives it a shake. "It's good to see you, Wes," she says, surprised that she means it. Now that the initial chill has thawed, Buffy can't help but think fondly of the namby-pamby Watcher wannabe Wes had once been. He looks dangerous now, with a thick scar peeking out from his turtleneck, and stubble lining his jaw. He also looks wearier, more jaded. The look in his eyes reminds her of that entire year she was all resurrected. Haunted. It saddens her that things have changed so much, that among all other things, they should be on such different ends of the fence, not knowing each other anymore.

That Wesley should know Angel and Angel's life better than she herself does.

"It's good to see you, too," Wesley says carefully. His hand touches her shoulder for a moment. "Forgive me, but Buffy, _is_ there a reason you're here? A demon uprising, perhaps? Or did the Council finally get their head out of their bums and--"

Buffy snorts. Maybe Wesley hasn't changed so much. He's certainly being deliberately obtuse. "Uh, sorry, Wes. Nothing so Wyndham-Price-y, I'm sorry to say."

Dawn shoves Buffy's side. "Look, it's like this. When a vampire and a woman have feelings for one another, and a woman's precious garden starts getting primed for watering, wink, wink, nudge, nudge--"

"No _talking_," Buffy commands, slapping her hand over Dawn's mouth. An awkward silence reigns for a moment and then Buffy giggles. She can't help it. "Do-gooders are always the most transparent," she admits, her smile lopsided. "You _know_ why I'm here. Precious garden, vampire watering, etcetra, etcetra."

Wesley nods in dawning realization before smiling uncertainly. "Are we do-gooders, then?" he asks softly, pointedly, and the question is loaded. Buffy immediately sobers. He is asking if he can trust _her_ to tell her where the men she came here for are. She'll have to show him he can.

"You're do-gooders," she says seriously. "Giles--well, you know how difficult it is for him to see past the black and white when it comes to Angel. When he signed up with Wolfram&Hart, it just made Giles even more wary. And Andrew, he spends a lot of time with Giles, he's soaked up a lot of those prejudices, not that it matters what _he_ thinks."

"That high-strung kid, the annoying one with the big whine? Andrew? He said you don't got a lotta trust for us here," Gunn says, and his voice is even, assessing.

Buffy looks down. "Andrew didn't have the right to speak for me. He wasn't even the one who was supposed to come, but I guess we're all big on the giveth of opportunities for redemption." She sighs. "My orders were not to leave the Slayer here, not because I don't trust you all. But because she's a Slayer, and she's one of ours." Buffy meets Wesley's gaze steadily. "You all have a family, here, right, Wes? Well, Slayers--they're mine. Sisters, daughters, whatever you want to call them. But they're in my blood, and they are _my_ team's responsibility." Her hand reaches out to squeeze Wesley's arm as she sweeps her gaze to all of them. "It doesn't mean we don't trust your camp. If it's gonna be about separate camps at all, I'd be glad we're at least on the same side. I just had to make _sure_ we were on the same side. Before I could leave a scared, teensy-bit-insane girl with a destiny in the hands of a law-firm that, frankly? Doesn't have the best reputation. It's Wolfram & Hart we don't trust--not you."

Dawn mutters something that sounds like 'Faaaiiitth junioorrr.' Buffy elbows her subtly. Dawn always did have problems with crazy people, and Dana isn't so bad once she was on her meds.

Fred looks shiny-eyed after Buffy's heartfelt speech, and she looks imploringly up at Wesley. "I think everything's cleared up now, right?" she asks. "We can all go into the club and have a few drinks and catch up a little." Her eyes light up. "Oooh, I'd love to hear some stories about your hometown. Sunnydale, right? A Hellmouth, Angel said. Wow. It all sounds so exciting, what you do there. Not the humdrum of little old LA. Why, just yesterday we had a N'agarthok demon, and heck, you live in the smallest hole in the _wall_ you could see a N'argarthok demon. _I_ heard y'all had _Turok_-hans--"

Buffy arches an eyebrow. "It's, uh, involved," Buffy manages. "Really involved and of the extreme humdrum." She turns to Dawn. "Long story, right, Dawnie?"

Dawn shrugs. "Evil came. We fought. We won. Sort of."

"Okay...not so long, then."

Wesley laughs. "You always were adept at the succinct," he says, almost fondly. Then, "Shall we go in? I know what you're looking for isn't here at the moment, but there's no reason why you and Dawn shouldn't enjoy yourself while you're here. The Cat and Fiddle is a highly-respected club, with exclusive clientele. I'm sure you two will have an immensely good time, and we can all catch up."

Dawn looks like she's about to explode with wanting to go in, so Buffy just sighs and nods. No point in running away now--and they _did_ say Spike and Angel were nowhere in sight. Gunn grins and says, "Tight. We'll be right back, ladies. And Lorne."

Fred and Lorne begin to chat companionably as Wesley and Gunn get out of line to see about getting into the club. Buffy smiles to herself, feeling a little bit better that Angel's cronies aren't whackos, at least. Mostly nice people. Maybe they're not all gonna be Scooby Gang buddy-buddy, but while she's here, it's nice to have at least a few other allies besides her religion-spouting little sister. Speaking of...

Buffy grabs Dawn's arm. "What was that whole rant about pearly-gates and sin and the court of law about, dude?"

"Dude?" Dawn shoots Buffy a withering glance. "Your slang is severely lacking, Retro Barbie. This is not the nineties, _hello_, okay, buh-bye."

Buffy stares at Dawn for a full moment, willing her little sister to realize she had just basically vomited up standard nineties slang, before giving up and shaking her head in wonder. "You are really, really damaged," Buffy says. "Like, supremely."

"Just 'cause I went all Da Vinci Code and recognized the religious conspiracy at Wolfram & Hart for what it's worth," Dawn says loftily. "You _know_ Jesus had this big beef with the Senior Partners, right? And that--"

"If you even tell me he was a Watcher, I'll tell Andrew you have a giant crush on him and secretly _like_ when he takes your underwear. I swear I will."

Dawn rolls her eyes. "Whatever," she says. "Look, Wes and Gunn are coming back!"

Buffy looks and indeed, the two tall, dark, and handsome men are coming back. _Wow_, Buffy muses. _Fighting evil really builds up the hottie potential._ 'Course, Buffy corrects herself bemusedly, _being_ evil is more likely to catch _my_ attention.

"Come on, sweet things," Gunn says to Buffy and Dawn, giving a mock leer. "We're VIP's tonight, so you may wanna stick with us."

Buffy rolls her eyes and is about to retort when Lorne interjects. He arches his brow and waves his hand airily. "Loco for Cocoa, we're _always_ VIP's." He winks at Buffy, who covers her smirk with a coughing fit. Dawn giggles out loud and skips ahead, taking a disgruntled Gunn by the arm, even as he looks wildly around for Buffy to behead him. Fred just shakes her head and hovers close to Wes, who looks down at the girl with an expression of fright and lust warring on his features.

Buffy can't help but think that relationship problems are like, unavoidable in the fight against evil.

The club is packed to the brim when they finally squeeze past the entrance and a surly bouncer, who eyes Buffy with just a little _too_ much enthusiasm. There's a band who's vaguely familiar playing on the stage, and a whole bunch of sophisticated L.A types having their mojitos and schmoozing while they grind their silcone bodies as close as propriety will allow. Or even closer, actually, one of them has--okay. _Ew._ Buffy moves on, walking slowly behind the group and taking in the surroundings. The decor is okay, nothing compared to some of the upscale clubs in Rome, but it's got the dark mood lighting and flashy display around the stage working for it. Buffy relaxes. If nothing else, there's good drinks and company to be had. Maybe even some dancing.

"Buffy?"

Buffy freezes. _Don't turn around,_ her inner monologue says. _You'll be sorry_. The voice comes again.

"Buffy Summers? Is that you?"

Buffy takes a deep breath and shoots a desperate look at the disappearing backs of her little sister and Team Angel. Giving in to the fact that the Universe has nothing but disgust for her, she counts to ten and then turns around, big smile plastered on her face.

"_Pike_?" she asks incredulously.

The world, Buffy decides dizzily, as the brunette beams happily, is a very strange place.

"God, Buffy, I wasn't sure if that was really you. You're all...tiny, now. Not as blonde either, but hey, that's a good thing, am I right? Haha. Whoa. How _are_ you? Where have you _been_? God, how long has it been, what, eight, nine years? Geez, you look _good_. What the hell are you doing in L.A?"

Buffy closes her eyes for a moment. "Pike. It's Pike. How great. My crime-fighting buddy from the days of yore. My first non-vampy crush. Pike. Right."

"Buffy?"

Buffy opens her eyes again and finally takes a good look at the man speaking to her, trying to forget how beyond _weird_ this is. For all the time nine years has been, Pike looks largely the same as he did the summer after their freshman year, when she saw him last. Still tall and skinny, with rangy muscles and a hollow-cheeked look. He's got a silly little soul-patch thing now, and tired lines around his mouth and eyes, but the crazy brown hair and doofy grin is still there. And his clothing...Buffy smiles. Still wearing the leather and the thrasher tee's. If it weren't for the obvious aging in his face, and the fact that his hand is very warm against her shoulder, she'd think Pike was a vampire for all he'd actually _changed_.

"Pike," she says, her voice warm. "God. It's good to see you." And then she can't help it, the familiarity of her old friend, the memory of him, how much of Xander's affable goofiness and Willow's kind concern and Spike's hot bad-boy look she sees in him, it just guts her. She has to hug him.

"Hey!" Pike laughs and tightens his arms around her. "You still have that Slayer muscle thing workin' for ya, huh?"

Buffy lets go and blushes. She forgets that she's stronger than she was when she was fifteen. "It's how I live," she says honestly, and shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

"And what a good thing that is," Pike leers, looking at her up and down. He winks and Buffy just grins, knowing she looks hot. Mini-skirt and lollipop she may not have, but jeans and a strappy top? Ultimate weapons for those bronzed, blond, and frankly? Beautiful. She preens under his gaze and Pike tilts his head back, laughing again. "Man, you really haven't changed! Tinier around the waist, maybe, and you let you're roots grow in, but you still know you're hot. Must be hell on the vampires, right before you bam! Get 'em right in the heart." He mimes staking a vampire, and the crazy, frenetic energy that always made people think Pike was on drugs is still there in his eyes.

Buffy giggles. It feels good to talk to someone from her past who knows about her Slaying, without the baggage of the past seven years. If only Pike _knew_, she thinks, somewhat ruefully, and she is determined not to let him find out.

"Buffy. Just...wow. What have you been _doing_?" Pike takes her hand and tugs her to one the the tables near the edge of the club, and for a second, Buffy feels guilty about leaving the others. But this is Pike, this is the past, wonderful and uncomplicated like it's supposed to be, so she just swallows and lets Pike lead the way.

"Me? I'm not really that interesting. Slayed a couple vamps. Couple thousand. Maybe a million. Or two. Uh...averting the apocalypse is an annual event, I happen to think I excel. Hmm...Oh! I set fire to another school. Or blew it up. Same difference. And--let's see...oh, okay, yeah--my town fell into a sinkhole last year 'cause we defeated the First Evil to walk this earth!" Buffy smiles brightly. "So, how's _your_ life been?"

The silence that follows declarations like this? Buffy could learn to love them.

"Um." Pike gives a disbelieving smile. "Okay, so. Nowhere near as intense as yours, I can already warn you about that. But, you know, not a Slayer, never was. Just a dude with his guitar and a motorcycle and a severe aversion to the undead."

Buffy smiles gently. "I wasn't trying to put you down," she explains. "My life is just...impossible to explain. I can't catch you up because there's miles and miles of backstory. But for what it's worth, I really wanna hear about what you've been doing."

Pike shrugs. "No big. You were never pretentious, Buff--oh, wait. There was that whole time that you sorta _were_." He gives a teasing smile as Buffy nudges him with her foot. "Nah, my life might not be all Adventures in Slayerdom, but I've had my share of gnarly experiences."

Buffy hides a grin. "Gnarly. Throwback to the golden days?"

"I hate change," Pike deadpanned. He shared a smile with Buffy and then launched into his tale. "I dunno, after freshman year, I decided I had to get outta L.A. I ended up in New York, of all places. Sixteen year old punk in the city, it was scary living for a while. But I found this dude, a nightclub owner. He gave me a job in cleaning the tables and shit after-hours. One night, this big dude with a serious Liberace complex wanders in. He and my boss get wordy, he ends up whipping off his big-ass sunglasses and flashing major teeth, and suddenly, it's like, whoa! Vampire! So my boss gets all flummoxed, starts screaming, and I just take the chair I'd been stacking on the table, break it, and dive at the vampire with the broken chair leg. I mean--I remember. Wooden stake. Chest. Poof."

Buffy nods. "Winning combination."

"Too right. So after the vamp got all ashy, my boss couldn't thank me enough, turns out he had lots of underworld vampire mafia dealings. I for one? Didn't know they existed, vampire mafia's, I mean...not vampires."

Unable to help herself, Buffy mutters darkly, "Kitten poker."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," Buffy says quickly. "Go on."

"Yeah, so, anyway. He wanted to make me his bodyguard, but I was pretty sure I would've gotten him killed first night, so I settled on asking him for a steady job. He made me talent manager, and after a few years, just signed the club over to me, and disappeared into the night. I had some good help though, and lots of money he left, and I sorta turned the club around. It's really happening now, y'know? I mean, here I am, travelling, scouting for the coolest bands to play at _my_ club. It's huge now. You're ever in New York, you gotta look us up. It's called Chosen."

Buffy arches an eyebrow.

"Strictly coincidental," Pike snickers, holding his hands up.

Buffy giggles. "Sure," she says, and she is strangely flattered. The band onstage begins playing a familiar song, and Buffy's eyes widen. "Oh my god, wasn't this playing during that party at Tyler Richardson's? The night we crashed and staked Jeremy Watson?"

Pike listens. "Hey, yeah!"

"Wow. Retro."

"Way."

They sit in nostalgia for a moment before Buffy hesitates and looks at Pike questioningly. "Hey, Pike?" she asks. "I gotta run soon, I have friends to meet with. And I dunno if we'll ever see each other again, but...do you wanna dance? For old time's sake?"

Pike's smile is slow, but blinding. "Um, _yeah_." Then he takes her hand and tugs her up, weaving through the crush of bodies and guiding her in one of those old, lamentable nineties dances that involved lots of head-bobbing and flailing arms.

Buffy hasn't had so much fun in a really long time.

But the universe has this rule. Fun-time for Buffy? A no-no. Soon, the dance is over, and a slow song comes on, its beat languid and sexual in a way Buffy's sort of shocked music can be. Pike pulls her close without a word, and for a second, Buffy doesn't even pull away. It's like the most natural thing in the world, to be pulled close to a thin, rangy body and to smell leather and smokes and--

Her eyes fly open. This is _not_ Spike. This is_Pike_, missing a letter in the front _and_ crucial elements of hotness. Buffy's never been the taking solace in other people type of girl--

Well. Okay, so she has.

But she's not _now_. She's here to reform. She loves Spike, or at least, she's pretty sure she does. And there's that Angel thing to deal with, too! There's no freaking way she can afford to have Pike in the mix, too, for all his fabulously-timed arrival may have thrown her for a loop. No. No more living in the past. Buffy tells herself she will _not_ take the easy, human-guy way out. She will fight for Spike, or fight _with_ Spike, but whatever happens, it's with her bleached blond guy. Not her still-tripped-out-on-acid and owning-a-nightclub guy.

Although admittedly, he could be evil now. Which holds a certain allure but--

Buffy pushes Pike back when his hands begin making a gentle sweep of her back.

"Um. Yeah, so," she starts. "With the reminiscing. All of it good. Really. But I have--look. So, I have this guy. This thing, this relationship-slash-who knows sorta thing. And it's really fragile right now, and I'm really happy to see you, Pike, but fourteen was a _long_ time ago, and I just don't think it'd be a good time to start anything between us."

Pike gives her a bewildred look. "What are you _talking_ about?" he asks, genuinely confused.

"You. And me. With the slow dancing and the gentle touches and the woo-hoo remember when we fought vampires together how romantic-ey." Buffy must stand firm. No dallying. She is marked goods. Hot Vampires Only. No Touchy.

Pike arches a brow. "Uh, Buff. Hate to break it to ya, babe, but I got a girlfriend."

Oh.

"Oh," Buffy nods. "Okay."

Pike gives a sympathetic smile. "I saw you here and I couldn't help but be like, wow. Freshman year. The memories, and all. Sometimes you just gotta be reminded that the past isn't always so damn horrific...in order to move on, y'know?"

Buffy's smile is soft and self-deprecating. "Yeah," she says, shaking her head and chuckling at herself. "Yeah, I do know."

Pike leans in and gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Listen. You were a great girl then and you're a great girl now, several averted apocalypses or not. I'm glad I got to see you, and see that you're still Buffy. No matter what, you're still Buffy. The One. The Chosen One. Yeah?"

Buffy nods. "Yep."

"Look, I gotta go anyway. The band's taking a break and I wanna talk to 'em. I hate to sound yearbook, but just--never change, okay, Buff? You're good stuff."

Buffy dimples. "Thanks, Pike. You too."

"And whoever this guy is that you're in a relationship-slash-who knows thingie with? Lucky, lucky bastard."

Buffy smiles. She wishes she could introduce the two. 'Pike, meet Spike,' she'd say. She giggles and opens her mouth to speak but someone beats her to the punch.

"Duly noted, mate. The lucky bastard says thanks ever so."

A hand curls around and drapes casually over her shoulder. The voice which just spoke is low and rough, and a caress of superficial breath flits against her ear as the speaker blows an impromptu kiss at Pike. With slow dread mounting in her stomach, and watching as Pike shoots her a weird look before giving the peace sign and turning to go, Buffy takes a deep breath.

"British accent, cold hands, primal possessive streak. Gee, who could it be?" she asks in a shaky, disbelieving voice. She doesn't turn around, not yet. She can't.

"Heard you were looking for me, Slayer," comes the casual reply. "Well, here I am."

Buffy can't help herself. She has to look. And as soon as she spins around and sees the white-blond hair, the dark eyebrows, and the cocky smile, her heart starts that familiar jackhammer beat. "Spike," she breathes. And it's not like the movies, where time stops or doves sing. It's just, Spike's in front of her, and she thought he was dead, but he's here, and talking, and oh God, what does she do now!

_Well, there's the possibility of Spike lips,_ she reminds herself. _It is sorta what you flew halfway around the world for._

Spike gives a tiny smirk, his lip curling, but underneath the bravado she sees the tremor running through him, the sheer fear and uncertainty in his eyes. He's as lost as she is, but the difference is, he's dived headfirst right into the whole sordid mess of _them_, instead of standing there gaping, as she well would have. Or is, um, actually doing so currently. The look on her face probably mirrors what Spike is feeling now, that deer-in-the-headlights, I'm-not-ready-for-this-confrontation thing, and Buffy feels herself soften as she steps closer, ready to just take him and hug him and--

His voice is effortlessly nonchalant. "About time you got here, innit? Was about to go 'round the world myself, but got sidetracked. Big evil's a'brewin here and I'm needed, not like I was back in Sunnydale, you know, used and all abused by every Scoobie in sight. Looks like you and Junior Whelp over there are busy enough for you not to worry, though. Nice to know. Never knew you went for the living types, now--top soul patch, by the way. _Very_ manly." His eyebrow is cocked, but that trademark defensive jealousy thing all the vampires she's known seem to have? Still there.

And suddenly all the goodwill just seeps away and in its place is just indignant fury. The smug grin, the devil-may-care attitude, the fact that he's _back from the dead_ and obviously not sorry that he never once called and that she's thrown for a loop and that he just insulted her very non-existent relationship with _Pike_, who she certainly could do better than, that's for sure?

God, what a _bastard_. 

The punch catches him in the gut before Buffy can catch up with her terminal disease of 'crazy, irrational, momentary anger.' Remorse zips through her for a full second but then her eyes narrow into slits, and she stands her ground.

"You are so dumb," she says finally. "You think I wanted those to be my first words to you upon my joyful return to the homeland? Nope, but there you go. You are as dumb as a sack full of very dumb rocks." She folds her arms. "I find out you're back from _Andrew_ of all people, I fly halfway around the world to see what's what--the same day I find out, no less, so packing was an extreme issue, and you _know_ how I feel about shortened packing time-- then the minute you see me, it's all, 'Look at me, I'm a jealous vampire with jealous vampire issues!' Not even a phone call or a hello, or, or, a good day, Buffy, guess what, I'm back, and the minute you finally see me again, _you_ yell at _me_? God, what is _wrong_ with you?"

"Been a bit incorporeal, haven't I?" Spike retorts, wheezing as he straightens. "Don't see you exactly combing the streets for me, either. Having a jolly old time at the Cat an' Fiddle with Boytoy over there, yeah that's _real_ hard work, Slayer."

"Oh my God," Buffy groans, exasperated. "I ran into an old friend. What was I supposed to do? Introduce him as my super-cool long-lost older brother so as not to threaten your frankly ludicrous lack of self-security?"

"Well, _yeah_." Spike narrows his eyes and tilts a suspicious chin at her. "_If_ you're not hiding anything, which I think you are. Appalling taste, to be more concise, but then, you never did get it right. Present company excluded of course." He preens. Actually preens!

"Are you kidding me?" Buffy spits. "He's not even dead, and you know that's _so_ not my type. _Un_fortunately, seeing as losing your heartbeat also means losing some choice braincells, too."

"Ooh, I'd forgotten," Spike snips, his eyes flashing fire. "You're more into the tall, dark, and Poofy. Well, hate to disappoint you, sister. But Angel-face is a bit more preoccupied with the arrival of tall, dark, and _leggy_. His secretarial slag's awake, or haven't you heard?" The savage glee in Spike's expression cuts Buffy more than his actual words. He's actually waiting to see her be hurt at the news, eager to talk about Cordelia and Angel (like that's something Buffy will actually ever have to worry about, yeah right--) in order to see Buffy wince. Well, she won't let him have it. She'll show him how mature she is.

"I don't care about them," she says quietly. "I care about _you_, but you didn't believe me the first time I tried to tell you, why would you believe me now?" Then she turns, ready to walk away. Behind her, she hears Spike groan quietly and follow her.

Then her backhand is hitting him hard, the crack satisfying and carnal, and okay, disturbingly sexy.

So much for mature.

"That's for the low blow," she says primly. Then she crouches over where Spike is kneeling, holding his cheek and snarling. "We haven't even said hello yet, do you realize that? We both died, and we're still the exact same when we come back, where it matters. Stubborn as hell in the whole avoidance of issues way." She shifts and continues in a conversational tone, wiping the blood from his face, "I've dreamt of what this moment would be like, you know? Is that strange? Like, I used to wonder if...if we would ever see each other again. All summer, I had these wacky dreams of kissing you one more time, of feeling you next to me. It was you, not Angel, it was_you_ and I was damned if I knew why. You drove me crazy, even when you were supposed to be dead." She extends a hand and hoists him up, tugging him closer impatiently. "Those dreams...they were...prophetic, I guess." She tilts her chin and looks hopefully up into Spike's eyes, pleading. "I mean, here you are. You. I want _you_, not Angel. You're back and you're not dead, and...the kissing. Prophetic. Yes?"

Spike looks at her for a long moment before he spurts into slightly hysterical laughter. "Are you having me on?" he asks in disbelief, his eyes wide.

Buffy pouts. "I'm not having you anywhere," she says teasingly, coming closer.

Spike shakes his head, backing away. "Buffy. You're... serious?" he asks, and his voice is worried, full of wonder.

"Well, kiss me hello and find out, for a start, idiot!"

But whatever Spike is about to do in the face of Buffy's bold encouragement is lost, because a movement in the crowd catches her eye.

It's Angel.

And he does _not_ look happy.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hope this one's enjoyed, even though Angel's the one dealt with in a bit...of a rough manner...I love him, I do. Tough lovin'. This is also, I've decided, unabashed humor/sop. There's nothing objective about it--I'm Spuffy all the way with this one. :D

- - -

Buffy's first thoughts are, funnily enough, those of annoyance. Instead of the usual, fuzzy-headed euphoria of _Yay! Angel's here, oh my god, how's my hair?_, mostly what she's thinking is, _Damn, no Spike lips, and Angel looks like he's going to yell. Oh my god, how's my hair?_

Well. Some things never change.

The mania of seeing Spike again is still faintly running through Buffy's blood, and she wonders what Angel would do if he saw her lean up and kiss the bleached blonde vampire he grand-sired so long ago. Probably go ballistic and kill people, seeing as he's all shady and evil again. Her lips purse at the thought and she places her hands on her hips, ready to step forward and give him a piece of her mind.

Then Angel's glower darkens and Buffy hastily decides she doesn't want to test her theory. Not that she couldn't hold her own, or anything. Just that unneccessary bloodshed is so _Sunnydale_.

Also, considering the fact that she and Angel almost _always_ lock lips whenever they see each other now, it'd probably be a bit hypocritical--not to mention insensitive--for her to go all pissy about Angel halting her own Spike mackage.

"Angel," she says, her voice high and bright. "Uh, hey."

Angel's eyebrow arches, because, yes, admittedly, lame greeting. But then Buffy's brow furrows--just 'cause she's not leaping into his arms and pining away, her greeting is suddenly not up to muster? What the heck is that?

"It's very up to muster," she mumbles to herself. "Many people say hey by way of salutations, it's _totally_ musterful. Full of muster." She juts her chin up. "Yeah, hey is just fine. I can say hey if I want. Hey, Angel. Hey."

Angel's eyebrow is still way up there. "_Hey_, Buffy."

There is silence for a moment save for the music all around them, and Buffy stifles a sigh. Her toes are mighty interesting right now. Very cute toes, they don't look like they're attached to an awkward, vampire-loving moron at all. Misleading toes. Bad toes, bad.

The silence is broken, unsurprisingly enough, by Spike. "God, this is pathetic."

"You? Yeah, I've always said so," Angel smirks. There is a tension, a nervous energy to him that Buffy wonders about, but it doesn't keep her from shooting him an admonishing glare.

"Angel, don't."

The universe tilts a little at this reversal. It's one thing to be all Encourage Girl for Spike when it's just him and her and a whole bunch of crazy talk in the Sunnydale High basement. But she's never done it before outside of impending apocalypse (and to _Angel_ of all people, oh God, how surreal and ironic is her life?). Never had any real reason to ask people to lay off Spike, besides the 'he's the best warrior we have' shpiel, which by the end, even Buffy sort of was tired to hear. Now she doesn't have an armageddon to fall back on, but surprisingly enough, she finds she doesn't need one.

It feels good to defend him simply because she cares for him. It's like they're almost...friends. She and Angel, they never got to be friends. It was always 'woe is our love, don't hate on it because it's tragic and doomed anyways' but with Spike--with Spike, there was sort of friendship, _kinship_ between all the wild sex and self-abuse and kickery. Or there could have been. There could _be_, Buffy firmly corrects herself, and squares her shoulders.

"Spike's not pathetic, okay?" Buffy says with the air of someone who knows these things intimately. And boy does she ever--Angel wants pathetic? Maybe he should sit in on Andrew's geekathon DVD runs every now and then--_that_ was patheticness squared, no, cubed.

"No?" Angel's eyes narrow, and he looks absurdly like a kicked puppy. "No. I guess, uh, not." He cocks his head, as if pondering some great mystery. Like what _"he's in my heart"_ could still mean after all that's happened. Then all the tension and animosity and hurt drains from his face and he drags a hand across his eyes as if he's very, very tired. "In any case, we don't have time for arguments. Whatever game we might play under other circumstances, it's gonna have to wait. Things are brewing. Big things." His eyes meet Buffy's. "And it's no coincidence that you're here, huh?"

Buffy gives a long-suffering sigh. "Where I go, big things follow."

Spike's lascivious grin is cut off by Buffy's knowing look. "Don't even touch that comment right now." Then, relenting because after all, hello, he'd been nice after _her_ resurrection, she takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. This doesn't escape Angel's notice, and he gives her a pinched look, like he's about to say something.

"So what's this big thing we don't have time for arguments because of?" She looks at Angel expectantly, arching her eyebrow. Sure, she's iffy about this whole standing up to Angel and showing him she can have a boyfriend (or a friend of the male vampire persuasion) if she wants, even though if they ever got in a fight they'd kill each other instead of Angel ripping said boyfriend's head off and drinking his spleen like he could've with Riley. But she's got to rise above it, especially since Angel tends to get prissy enough for the both of them about things like this. He has to get used to seeing that Spike is a part of Buffy now, just like she got used to finding out Angel had a freaking son (a _son_, although Willow hadn't been too clear on the details that one drunken weekend in Rio). Plus, he's obviously not the same man (or vampman) he once was--she's got to stand her ground or risk falling into the googly eyes of doom.

Doesn't mean she's nervous, not at all. She only made promises of being cookies one day and saving the delicious oatmeal raisinishness of her for _him_, only to indeed "give him the brush off for Captain Peroxide." It's not the stuff of perfect happiness, that's for sure, but that doesn't mean Angel still can't go all angsty and evilly on her now.

Buffy sighs and chides herself. _No,_ she thinks, _No jitterbugs in **this** tummy. Slayers can't show nervousness. Vampires can smell it, among other things._

"You smell nervous," Spike whispers in her ear. Buffy jumps.

"God! That is so _freaky_," she grits out.

"What're you nervous for?"

Buffy shakes her head. Whatever new feelings she's having for Spike, new feelings of protectiveness and--and that other thing, she can't share them yet. And it wouldn't be fair to either her or Spike to do that. They're different people now, Spike's been through things and so has she. They have to take some time before they can--

"And your knickers are wet, too."

--start having sex again.

_No,_ Buffy says sternly in her head. _No Spike sex. What are you, some sort of Slutty Buffy? How about hit first base before rounding all the way home? No Spike sex. Yet._

Spike's smoky laugh echoes in her ear.

_But maybe Spike lips. Maybe._

"Are you done yet?" Angel's pained voice breaks through Buffy's haze and she starts guiltily, remembering the whole vampire-super-hearing thing. She glances at Spike suspiciously, and seeing him grin smugly, realizes that he remembered the vampire-super-hearing thing, too. She narrows her eyes and kicks him subtly in the shins.

"Yep. All done," she declares, and Spike mutters a curse under his breath, locking his fingers around her wrist and jutting his chin out at Angel. Angel gives them a curt nod that says they'll be discussing things later, and Buffy just rolls her eyes. Stupid vampires and their dumb possessiveness.

"There's something big happening," Angel declares. "And it involves Buffy."

Buffy rolls her eyes again. "Big surprise," she mutters darkly. "Is it an apocalypse?"

Angel shakes his head. "I don't know. Cordelia had a vision, and all she told me was that you were in town, and that something was about to happen. And then she said, 'Tell her those jeans would be cute if they weren't a size zero.'" Angel stops and seems to attempt to stare at his own mouth in wonder. "I...didn't really mean to quote her directly," he says lamely.

Buffy arches a brow. "We all live in hope not." She looks down at her jeans. "And these are a size four!" she says indignantly. "I'm bulking up."

Spike leers. "I think you look perfect," he says. "Vision Girl doesn't know what she's blathering about."

Angel narrows his eyes. "Spike," he grits out. "Shut up." He looks down at Buffy, using his patented hunky-gaze, all intense and concerned. "Have you seen any demonic happenings around here since you've arrived?"

Buffy has to stop herself from saying "Those shoes and that shirt," but boy, does it take effort. Angel's style sense sure has gotten...well, more boring. He's all suit jackets and plum button-ups, now, and where the hell did the Armani loafers come from? She glances at Spike and is relieved to see he still looks the same: black duster, black t-shirt, black jeans. Nice and creature-of-the-darknessy, not all Business Weekly.

"Nope," she answers Angel. "Got in this morning, haven't really had time to see anything foreboding. But you, now, you work at an evil lawfirm. Have _you_ seen anything demonic happening since I've arrived?"

Angel's eyes darken. "A couple ritual sacrifices," he says evenly. "Nothing too hairy." Off Buffy's look, he shakes his head. "Come on, Buffy. You know better."

"No, Angel. What I know is that one minute Wolfram & Hart is a really insiduous firm with a track record of, oh, you know, _killing_ people. Then the next, you're their CEO, and the reputation isn't taking any blows. No, it's actually _better_, cause guess what? Angelus is the new freakin' higher-up!" Buffy steps close, her eyes calculating. She's not sure if she believes Angel is really _evil_ per se, but she really wants to understand what made Angel make this decision...and also, what Spike's part in this whole shebang is.

"How do you know all this?" Angel asks, his jaw tense.

"Giles asked around. _I_ asked around. You have a real rep among the nasties--very Scourge of Europe-y." Buffy folds her arms and turns to Spike. "And _you_. You came back as a _ghost_ because Wolfram & Hart hand-delivered you and that wasn't suspicious to you at all? And then you finally recorpealize, and you stay _here_? With the evil dudes and _Angel_? Don't you guys hate each other?"

"Definitely."

"Oh, with a burning passion."

Buffy sighs and throws up her hands at Angel and Spike's feverish agreement. "Then what's going on? Why are _you_--" she points to Angel, "--evil, and why are _you_--" she points to Spike, "--a big chicken?"

"We're not!" Angel says, exasperated. Then, catching Spike's eye, he hastily amends, "Well, _I'm_ not evil. He's still a chicken." Angel rakes a hand through his hair. "Buffy, you know I care for you, I always will, but I just don't have time for our little back-and-forth right now--"

Buffy puts a hand up. "Whoa, there. Who's backing what forth now? Angel, I'm not angsting out about our forbidden love, here, I'm seriously curious as to how you made one of the worst decisions I've known you to ever make, and uh, hello, I've known you to make a few--"

Spike coughs something that sounds like 'hair gel' and Buffy feels a warm sense of kinship come over her. Yeah, Angel's hair gel _is_ dumb!

"Look, Buffy." Angel's face is in granite-mode now, which means he's pretty much tuning out everything and anything unagreeable after he makes his speech. "I realize that to you, I've just been messing up ever since I came to Sunnydale to help you out during your Apocalypse, _without_ questioning your pretty _questionable_ way of handling things, I might add. But taking over Wolfram & Hart was _my_ decision to make in the first place, and I happen to think me and my team are doing some good. Sorry we're not all sunbathing in la citta eterna here, but we've got priorities. In any case, thanks for letting me in on Giles's--whoops, _your_--opinion concerning Wolfram & Hart. Now, you can either work with us against this big evil Cordy saw, or you can go home." His lips are in a tight line and he is leaning over Buffy now, doing that intimidating, towering thing he always liked to do when he was losing fights with her.

Whereas once, Buffy might have cried at such a speech, now she only feels good old-fashioned feministic righteousness. Has Angel always been this pushy about making decisions that included the both of them? In a word: _yes_, but the difference is, Buffy's a lot older now, and a lot more _tired_ now, and she can finally call him on all the B.S he likes to call their "issues."

Her eyes blaze. "Angel? When did you become the boss of Buffy? When did this happen? Did I sign a contract? Was I just not there when it happened? Did you make an _executive_ decision? Well, too bad, buddy. I'm not employed by Wolfram & Hart, and since I could beat you up, you don't get to tell me what to do." She stomps forward and shoves Angel's shoulder a little. "Go _home_? Nuh with a double side of uh, buddy. I'm on vacation, okay? So I didn't even really _come_ here to question your evilness or proclaimed lack thereof. I came here for _him_." Buffy jerks a thumb back to point at Spike, and Angel's expression is priceless.

"You did?" Angel asks, mouth dropped open.

"You did?" Spike echoes, still looking a little disbelieving. "You expressedly came for me? Not a hop, skip, jump over the pond for Droopy Brow here?"

"I did. For you." Buffy confirms, turning to Spike for a brief, tentative smile. "But I did anticipate Droopy Brow," here, she turns and gives a sour look at Angel, "and he was definitely supposed to be more mature and less nyah-nyah-I'm-evil-and-you-can't-do-anything-about-it-'cause-it's-my-city-not-yours."

"I'm _not_ evil!" Angel bursts. "That's the other part of me--remember? Angelus? Cocky guy, sorta smarmy. Really mean. Likes to maim?"

"Yeah, yeah, soulboy. Put a sock to the tired charade." Spike shakes his head and feels his jacket up for smokes. "Been hearing this whine-moan routine for way too long."

"I'll show you _whining_," Angel hisses, grabbing at Spike's jacket. "All I've heard since we opened that godforsaken package is 'Boo-hoo, Buffy doesn't love me--but I'm going to Rome anyway right after I annoy the hell out of everyone in the entire office for a mo'. Well, now she's here, and it's just for you! Not for me, even though there were _supposed_ to be cookies." He glares at Buffy, then turns back to Spike, his voice pathetically low. "Happy now?"

"Extremely," Spike grins grimly. "Be even happier if you'd let go of my coat, you big poncey git!" He tries to release himself impatiently, wriggling around.

"For the last time," Angel explodes, shaking Spike, "I--am--very--_heterosexual_!"

"Tell that to the person who made your _lifts_!" Spike snarls, grabbing Angel's suit jacket, too.

"My elevators?" Angel asks, confused.

"That wasn't supposed to furrow your substantial brow, Peaches. 'M talkin' 'bout your _girly_ shoes, you wanker! What kind of Irishman are you? You _don't even have a brogue_, faker!"

"Yeah? Well, _you_ bleach your hair!"

Before the vampires can come to blows, however (and attract even more ardent attention from the bar, where two hoe-bags in tight leather are looking at them like the second coming), Buffy plows between them and picks both Spike and Angel up by their shirt-collars.

"Don't. Hit." Buffy says firmly. She looks from vampire to vampire. "I'll put you down, but only under one condition: you guys have to apologize, and stop fighting. It's embarrassing, not to mention barbaric, and hello, conspicious." She shakes both males. "Okay?"

"That's two conditions you gave us, not one, Slayer. I'll stop fighting, but I won't apologize to that git," Spike grumbles, which earns him a harder shake.

"Oh, look, Spike can count," Angel glowers, "and I'm not going to apologize, either, then. He really _does_ dye his hair, you know." This earns him an equally hard shake.

"Okay, so it's like this," Buffy sighs wearily. "I'll throw you both across the room, anonymity be damned. This is LA, so chances are, a) no one will notice or care, and b) the ones who do will probably just film it and sell it to Fox as America's Wussiest Bar-Fighters. Now are you gonna listen, or be covered in non-fun Slayery bruises?"

After a moment: "We'll stop," Angel says sullenly.

"We''ll listen," Spike adds grumpily.

Buffy grins smugly and puts them down, keeping her hands on their chests as a cautionary (not at all lecherous) way to keep them separate for the time being. Angel steps back and dusts his jacket off, straightening his collar and cuffs and looking generally disgruntled. Spike only makes a digusted sound and yanks his collar back into position, glaring daggers at Angel. Buffy has to smile in spite of herself--they're like _five_ year olds.

"Now. Say you're sorry," Buffy chides, neatly stepping into the role of babysitter. "Being here and fighting evil with you guys is gonna be hard enough as it is--you're both way highstrung, and you do this vampire thingie where you take two or three hits before you even decide to hit back, just to prove your, like, masculinity or something. Drives me _nuts_. But if you two are gonna be fighting each other, _too_, well--" Buffy screws her face up. "Just say you're sorry, please."

Angel is the first to break. "I'm sorry I thought about breaking a bar stool over your moronic head," he recites dutifully. "Even though you're a pain in the ass."

Spike snorts. "Only sayin' this 'cause Buffy's making me," he sneers. "But 'm sorry I was about to smash your face in with my boot to your stupid, caveman forehead."

Buffy smiles weakly in the silence that follows. "See? We can all be friends." She passes a hand through her hair. "Look, Angel. I didn't come here to cause fights, or to question your place in things." She looks at Angel and all her anger drains. "Really. I didn't. I was worried, maybe, about how...things were handled. But if you say you're not evil? I guess I'll have to believe you." Buffy smiles wryly to show she's joking about any reticence. "I just...I want to be _friends_, okay?" she says carefully. "For real this time. None of that...you know, Sunnydale stuff. Real live--um, undead and alive--friends. Can we do that?"

"Sure, Buffy," Angel responds after a shocked second. "If that's what you want. We can be...friends?" he asks with a pained question of finality in his voice, clearly warring with himself.

"It's what I want," she says firmly, reaching out her hand to shake his.

"What about Spike?" Angel asks evenly. "Are you here for his friendship, too?"

Buffy's smile fades as her hand drops. She knows they have a ways to go before things are ever okay with them, and the fact that she's here for Spike is definitely not gonna help that along, but she had no idea she'd have to confront their issues here and now. Normally, she wouldn't make a deal of it, content to just chug along on the Angel Heartbreak Express, but she can't do it anymore. She can't be Bitter Buffy and languish in the shadow of her and Angel's lost love. She deserves someone who's willing to be with her, and _Spike_ has always shown just how willing he is.

And for once, Buffy is willing, too.

She bites her lip against a scathing response to Angel. Just 'cause she's had a few epiphanies doesn't mean she's got to take it out on her ex. And she is taking it out on him, yelling and picking fights, when really, he knows he's the loser this time. _This_ time, she's gonna walk away from _him_.

Admittedly, a large part of her vehemence about Wolfram & Hart is nerves about seeing him again, and the other part is a tiny bit...well, jealousy. Jealousy for moving on to a new life without her, jealousy for finding a purpose outside of Sunnydale, jealousy of how well Angel is actually handling things--aside from the whole 'maybe-evil-law-firm' thing. Which, also admittedly, another part of her is genuinely all afraid of. But the bottom line is, it's clearer than ever that her cookies are starting to brown, and they're not Angel's. Not anymore. She's just not interested in waiting for the day that he _might_ be ready to enjoy 'em.

It's time for her to try and move on, for once.

_Angel_ has, for all his nattering on about Spike and her. She saw the way his eyes brightened when he mentioned Cordelia, and there's a sick feeling inside her that Willow's tentative warnings of a blossoming relationship between them weren't just drunken hallucinations...not to mention Spike's earlier mean-spirited glee. Maybe she _will_ have to face Cordelia and Angel as a couple, but Angel's gonna have to deal with her and Spike, too.

Buffy's hand finds Spike's. "That's between me and him," she says carefully, looking deeply in Spike's eyes. "But I think we both agree that it's not as important now as portents of evil." She sighs. "It's never allowed to be." She turns and arches a brow at Angel. "Right?"

Angel's eyes are faroff for a second. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, you're right." For a moment, his face is so sad that Buffy feels the long-ago pull of her sixteen year old self. But then she remembers all the pain and vacillation and just the general badness of it all. It never outweighed the good in the end, and who're they to be waiting for their rewards forever? She'll always love Angel, of that she's sure. Even now, her cells still tingle with the memory of being near to him. She knows how he smells how he tastes, how he kissed. But she doesn't know _him_ because he never let her, and that's the biggest thing.

Yes, she'll always love Angel. But she's not _in_ love with him anymore.

Buffy cocks her head. The whole _in_ love thing is too scary to contemplate right now, but she's frighteningly suspicious that the hand wrapped around hers right now belongs to someone she could be. In love with, that is. Someone she thinks she is in love with, in fact. She's a lot of things, but she's never been a liar, and her words as the world was ending a year ago come back to her in swift surround-sound.

Which reminds her. "This doesn't mean you're off the hook, mister," she says warningly, shaking a finger at a bemused Spike. "You've been on my list since you burned up into little itty bitty dust particles."

Spike grins. "Not exactly my fault, Buffy," he says, and the way he utters her name just _does_ something to her. No Slayer, no bitch, just Buffy, and his voice is warm, not cocky. It's real, like it was those golden moments of peace leading up to the Hellmouth exploding. The feel of his fingers against hers and the cadence of his voice makes it really hit home that he's back and Buffy has a second chance. "An' I wasn't being a piece of poultry, as you so kindly accused me of before. I mean, I _was_ maybe, but not for the yellow-bellied reasons you're thinking. I s'ppose I was just scared."

Buffy shakes her head. "Of what?" she asks exasperatedly, an echo of yesterdays.

"Of it not bein'...well. Like this." Spike's eyes shine with a sort of restrained happiness that she hasn't ever recalled seeing in them before. It shames, gratifies, stuns, exhilirates her. It also occurs to her that this entire time of battling wills with Angel, Spike has been content to stand by her side, silent. Not like a lapdog, like she used to disdainfully think of him. Now Buffy shudders to think that. Not a lapdog at all--a companion. An equal.

She isn't a little girl who needs protecting to Spike. She's a mate, a woman he loves, someone he trusts at least a little to make her own decisions. Well, _most_ of them, and she thinks in guilty satisfaction of how her fist cracked against his jaw in retribution for not telling her about being alive. There's a difference in this punch and the punches of before--this one was the way they communicated, warrior to warrior, and in a twisted way, lover to lover (hey, bruises could be romantic, especially if they healed in the shape of a heart, like the one Buffy once got fighting a Loksha demon). The last punches before this one, of self-disgust and confusion and pain, they were of another age, and now, now she's finally ready to move on and forget everything of the past. Move on to the future.

Her hands caress Spike's cold, smooth skin, her chin tilted up to kiss him, right there in front of everyone, and for a moment, she gets a little choked up--

A shriek breaks the moment up. Buffy rolls her eyes. So much for Hallmark. Angel, who looks a little bit green, turns desperately to the source of the shrill yell, while Spike, looking endearingly frustrated, sighs and turns around in resignation.

A brunette blur dashes through the crowd and launches herself at Spike. A wild moment of Buffy going mad with rage later, the brunette detaches herself and punches Spike in the arm.

To his credit, he tries to make it look like it hurts.

"_That's_ for making my sister cry when you went kablooey!" Dawn says, her own eyes suspiciously bright. "But the hug was 'cause, you know, I missed you."

Buffy smiles tightly. "Dawn has this radar," she explains to Spike. "Moments when she's most _not_ wanted."

Dawn scowls, then looks abashed. "Oh, wait," she says. "Were you two about to get into the smoochies?"

Angel breaks in. "No! No kissing here, big evil coming."

Dawn looks suspiciously up at him. "You mean like _you_?"

Then, because Angel looks like he really might kill the next person who calls him evil, Buffy rushes to do damage control. "No, Dawnie. We cleared that up. Angel's not evil, he's just a bad decision-maker."

Dawn seems to ponder that for a moment. "Works for me," she shrugs, then turns to Spike. "Oh my god, I can't believe you're back! Having Andrew telling me the story doesn't do it justice, tell me _everything_."

Spike looks disconcerted. "Weren't the last words you really said to me, 'I'm gonna light you on fire'?"

Dawn stops and fidgets, while Buffy struggles to look both impressed _and_ stern. "It was an idle threat," she protests. "I was sticking up for Buffy. And I can't even work _non_ child-proof lighters." she finishes glumly.

Spike fights a grin and puts a tentative hand on Dawn's shoulder. "Well, I'll teach you to light fires and stuff, then."

Dawn smiles broadly and launches herself at him again, hugging him tightly. "Cool!" she beams.

Angel just stands there, looking a bit forlorn. "Hi...Dawn." he says to no one. "Nice to see you again."

Buffy takes pity on him, because it sort of _is_ a rather pathetic tableau of events he's witnessed the past several minutes. She really never meant to drop in here and put that lost look on his face, and the tender-Angel-lovin' side of her finally wins out as she takes his sleeve and pulls him into Dawn's crazy sphere of flurried questions.

"Angel, tell us all about this big and evil thing Cordelia saw. Because we need you and you are needed. Promise."

"Cordelia?" Dawn stops her hyper Spike-inventory-of-parts and spins. Her eyes gleam, and Buffy feels a flicker of nervousness. It's no secret that Cordelia was always Dawn's idol in Sunnydale, tall and thin and hot and rich. Buffy was sorta glad when Cordy left, because at least it meant no more Dawn scribbling all over her face with red lipstick and calling herself Queen D. But Dawn's still very impressionable; from the looks of it, she's also still mega-interested in what her old idol is up to. "She's awake? How's her hair?"

Angel's smile is almost _radiant_, and boy, is that creepy, Buffy decides. "Yep," he confirms. "Woke up yesterday. There was this vision deal and this tiny Texan guy and some heartfelt talks, with some of the trademark Chase bluntness, but she survived unscathed. She's back and better than ever! Good thing, too. She came back at a time I--we--really needed her. Oh, and her hair is really pretty. Kinda curly, makes her look--nevermind."

Buffy doesn't miss the Freudian slip, or the way Angel's eyes suddenly aren't so accusing, but guilty. Her suspicions are only intensified by the way Angel describes Cordelia's lack of tact as trademark bluntness, instead of what Buffy always liked to label it: bitchiness.

"So Cordy's like your Girl Friday now?" Buffy asks casually.

Angel gives a nervous laugh. "Heh, heh, well, I don't know, she's pretty much--" he cuts off and points an almost desperate finger. "You and Spike are going out!"

That answers _that_ question, and Buffy takes a deep breath. "It's not important now, anyway. We'll discuss it all after this big, random, brewing evil you keep hinting at but never explain!"

"Big evil?" Wesley pops out of nowhere and almost gives Buffy a heart-attack. "Really? Angel, what are she talking about?"

"Where did you pop out of?" Buffy asks, heart still racing. She sees Gunn, Lorne, and Fred behind Wes. Gunn looks uncomfortable, Fred looks embarrassed, and Lorne looks curious. Buffy narrows her eyes and points at them. "Oh, jeez. You guys were totally _eavesdropping_!"

"Nuh-uh," Gunn claims, looking unreasonably skittish about Buffy's fist's proximity to his face.

"We didn't hear much," Fred chimes in, her eyes wide. "And uh, coincidentally, congratulations about you and Spike!"

Buffy can't help but smile at the girl's enthusiasm. "Thanks," she says.

Wesley rolls his eyes. "Now that we're finished discussing our romantic lives--or lack thereof--" a cough and glance at Fred, who remains oblivious, "Can we talk about this big evil?"

Lorne just grins. "Tall, dark, and hunky looks a bit preoccupied, Wes. I'm thinking in the face of evil, only two things survive: idiots in love and music."

"I'll take music," Gunn says sourly, although Dawn is still eyeing him up, interested.

"And I'll take an explanation, please," Buffy finally says. Her hand finds Spike's and they face the others. "I almost wish Cordy herself was here to tell us what's the what!"

"That's why I came," a voice suddenly says behind them. "Mr. Awfully-Long-Winded-For-No-Breath here takes some time in getting to the point. But that's okay, because now I can see that what I saw in my vision is true. Peroxide Pete really is Buffy's new honey...and wow, look whose standards have fallen to an all-time low."

She knows this voice. Sighing, she steels herself for the inevitable confrontation.

"Hello, Cordelia."

- - -


	5. Chapter 5

- - -

On a scale of one to ten, one being estatic and ten being very, very unhappy, Buffy rates herself as maybe, oh, say, a _billion_ when it comes to how she feels about seeing Cordelia Chase again.

Now, Buffy likes to think that she's done a fair bit of growing up since seeing Cordelia last. Heck, she's even _died_ and been resurrected since seeing Cordelia last. But there's still that stupid high-school girl inside of her who's afraid of what big, bad Queen C is gonna dish out this time. Especially now that Cordy finally got the guy--

_Although_, Buffy muses, smiling at the way Spike's arm comes to rest across her shoulders, _I think I got a guy, too. A good guy. A guy who looks just as hot as Angel in billowy coats, and wouldn't ever wear designer labels more expensive than me_. Because looking at Angel's shiny new loafers is a little disconcerting, considering Buffy's wearing Jimmy Choo's that look downright second-hand next to those--

"Oh my god, wait a minute--" Buffy gasps. "Angel, are those _crocodile skin_?!"

Everyone looks really, really embarrassed for Angel as the comment sinks in. Then Cordelia is playing the Wench in Bitchy Armor and rushing to Angel's defense. (Which Buffy privately thinks is a load of poop, because yeah, Cordy might be tall enough to be all Amazon for Angel, but if she had to, Buffy could _so _kick Vision Girl's butt.)

"Big surprise," Cordelia observes. "Buffy's still more worried about Angel than her own boyfriends. I'd tell you to stick to guys your own size, but looks like you're already taking my advice," Cordelia says, giving Spike a withering look. She lays a possessive hand on Angel's arm, and Buffy scowls, ready to retort.

Spike's voice, low enough for just her to hear, stops her. "Leave it, Slayer. She's obviously only jealous of how you're smarter, stronger, and sexier than she is. Not to mention tanner, good on you getting some Roman sun while Secretary Sue here languished in her restful coma-state."

Buffy gives him a quick, grateful smile. "I always said you were astute." She stops. "Well, no, I never did, but I'm saying it now. Very good. Points for astutity. Or astuteness. That's a hard word to make into an adjective--"

Spike continues on, his eyes still trained on Cordelia, who's turned to have a reunion of sorts with the others: "Not to mention, I rather like it when me an' my girls match up heightwise--that way, there's no straining on your tippy-toes or standin' on a box like with Cro-Magnon over there." His fingers tighten against her shoulder and then fall away to dance across her nape, down her back, until they settle on the curve of her backside. "'Sides, our parts fit together nice-like, yeah? I think you an' me'd be the winners in this equation. Don't you agree?"

Buffy gives a nervous giggle. And she _never_ giggles.

"Um, yeah, yes," she stammers to Spike, her body fighting with her mind. Despite how nice it is to hear Spike unequivocally defending her again (not to mention have his fingers on her person), there's this definite need to wipe off the smirk from Spike's face and have a serious talk with him, 'cause he still seems to think this is all a flirty game. And he's making _her_ think it's a flirty game now, too, touching her and talking to her like Spike on a Sex Stick, not Spike the Potential Boyfriend Whom She Still Needs to Have a Heart to Heart With.

But still--it's a nice game with hot glances and suggestive remarks and that thing he does with his eyebrow--No! A game it is, nonetheless, and Buffy sternly pulls herself out of DreamySpikeland to grab his hand and squeeze. Hard.

Spike winces. "Right, no naughtiness when you're working, I remember."

Buffy gives a sweet smile before turning to Cordelia, who just cocks her head as if to say, Give me your best shot.

_Oh, you bet I will_, Buffy thinks darkly. Her smile intensifies, hitting almost saccharine levels. "What can I say, Cordelia," she says aloud. "You always have the super-best advice!" She nods her head towards Spike. "I happen to like the guy I'm sticking with right now, thanks, and I can tell you--where it counts, he's nowhere near as tiny as you seem to think he is."

The group seems to digest this comment, but it's Dawn who goes, "Ohhhh. _Ew_." and echoes what's on everyone's minds. Buffy realizes her mistake and goes bright red, slightly ruining her tough-girl-lecture cred.

"I meant his _heart_, you unimaginable perverts," Buffy grits. She addresses Cordy once again, the false smile resurfacing. "You can totally have Angel if you want, anyway, Cordy. Think of it as a 'Hey, you survived a coma!' gift from me. Mine to Faith was a pummeling to end all pummelings, but you take what you can get, I'm sure."

Cordelia gives Buffy an even look and folds her arms, keeping silent. Obviously threats of physical harm don't exactly bug her anymore (which is a shame, 'cause they sure do make Buffy feel better), but it feels nice for Buffy to have voiced her opinion about things for once. She feels almost twistedly peaceful after letting her inner bitch out, labelling Angel ( _Angel_, as in salty-goodness-their-love-was-forever Angel) as charity to the bitter high school rival who never missed a chance to remind Buffy just how much of a loser she was. The rest of the evening could go by without insult or injury, Buffy thinks (yeah right, if it were a parallel universe maybe, and even then chances are slim), and she'd still be right as the rightest rain because she's _finally_ the winner when it comes to Cordelia Chase.

Spike smiles. "You really think I have a big heart?"

Buffy smiles back shyly. "Who cares if it doesn't beat? In this case, size _does_ matter."

Dawn lets loose a little meep that sounds suspiciously like an "Aww," and Fred looks like she's about to follow suit. Angel, however, narrows his already dark and stormy eyes to little dark and stormy slits. (Buffy wonders if his nostrils have always done that icky flaring thingy, and decides she can't quibble--when Spike gets going, his jaw gets so tight and his cheeks so hollow that he looks like his face is about to turn inside out. _We all have our faults,_ she considers philosophically, looking at Spike idly, _ And Spike's right--it is better having a guy who's not two whole people taller than me for once. Less neck cramps._)

"Okay," Angel says loudly. "Let's not forget the main point of this little meeting, guys. We're here to discuss Cordelia's vision, not be at each other's throats--or bodies." He throws a clear look at Buffy and Spike, before taking Cordelia's hand, fumbling a little in his nervous--and hypocritical--energy. Buffy discreetly rolls her eyes, Spike gives an audible mocking laugh, and Cordelia just shakes her head.

"God, you are so lucky you're hot," the woman says exasperatedly, inexplicably echoing thoughts that Buffy has had many a time. "You may wear Giorgio now, and be all super-rich-business-man-guy, but you definitely still need me."

"I do," Angel admits quietly, and for a second it's like they're the only two in the room for each other. Buffy almost thinks it's sweet, if it were anyone other than Angel and Cordelia, and she wonders if that's how she and Spike look when they have their little moments. Then she thinks, _Hey, wait, so unfair! They can't have smoochies if we can't!_

Most of what's freaking Buffy out, though, is that she can tell Cordelia's tone is fond. It stuns her a little, seeing Angel hold hands with _Cordelia Chase_, but then--Buffy holding hands with Spike? Also probably weird to other people, no matter how good it feels to _them_.

So Buffy decides to call it even, high school rivalry and supposed-to-be-eternal-love be damned. Because in the end, it's not about who's burning who that matters anymore. It's about who's happy, and when Spike's hand drops from her casually to rake through her hair experimentally--

Buffy pretty darn sure that she's _happy_.

She looks up at him, her eyebrow arched, and she's aware distantly that Dawn and Fred and Cordelia are now chattering on to each other, and that Wes seems to be attempting to wrench some information from Angel. Lorne and Gunn are watching the freakshow, and Spike?

Spike just keeps his fingers running through the hair she has falling down her back, his skin cool against her sweaty nape. It's almost like she and Spike are in this contained little bubble, and all that exists is the way his fingers stroke through her hair and that look on his face, a cross of concentration, delight, and wickedness. Like he's testing his boundaries already, and why should Buffy be surprised? It was always his way, pressing his luck, measuring her reactions, doing whatever it took to get what he wanted, and what he wanted was _her_. It's the impatience that's ingrained in his very core, the irony of (despite the fact that he's dead) his thirst to get out in the world and _live_. No, it's not surprising at all that Spike isn't taking it slow, that all he knows is that Buffy came to LA for him and now he's finally _allowed _to be like this with her, without sharing with old ghosts or friends who don't approve. He's believing her this time about her feelings, trusting her with his own, and Buffy's heart soars.

What is _really_ surprising is how uptight Buffy _isn't_ being about this whole new slew of changes. How she's taking it all in stride, how she's willing to wait a little bit to really get things right with Spike instead of rushing headlong into something that would just overwhelm them both. How she's not willing to wait forever, though. How she's finally anxious to start living, too, and how she _wants that life to have Spike beside her_ , despite her earlier insistence that she was raw cookie dough.

She's ready for this thing she may have with him, has to admit she's maybe been ready for it ever since she heard Spike was back. Buffy is finally ready to work on moving forward with Spike, instead of looking backward at all her regrets (Crocodile-Loafer-Boy being one of the more bittersweet of those).

This revelation should scare her, an epiphany so sudden and decisive it's almost like a blow to the head. But instead, Buffy just leans her head towards Spike's, smiles a small, contented smile, and lets herself be one with the moment. In other words, she finally chills the hell out and just lets things _be_. In fact, if she had pointy ears and whiskers, she'd be a cat for all the purring that's about to happen, as she tilts her chin closer to his--

"Wait-- you were a _demon_? And you gave birth to the next _what_?" Dawn's voice cuts through Buffy and Spike's third almost-kiss of the night. Spike sighs beside her, and Buffy takes a deep breath, counts to ten.

"Half-demon," Cordelia corrects, "And according to these whackos, I was the birth-vessel to some major mojo goddess. Jasmine?"

"You haven't heard of her?" Wesley breaks in. "She had us all under her thrall, and indeed, sent Cordelia into a coma. I think she used television as her medium to reach the masses--worldwide adoration was one of the root reasons she was so dangerous."

"Oh, and the face of creepy, crawlin' little maggots you only saw after being infected with her blood," Fred chimes in.

"And the way she ate souls, that crap definitely ain't the stuff of peace and joy, people!" Gunn reminds. Everyone nods seriously; eating souls apparently _does_ universally classify danger.

Dawn shrugs. "Uh. We had a big veiny Willow-issue 'round that time-- _really_ wasn't high on our priority list to watch us some mind-melding mojo goddess. Sorry we missed it though."

Buffy nods. "Yeah," she says almost wistfully. "Sounds fun." In the face of a mad-with-power best friend who just saw her girlfriend gunned down? Yeah, a goddess who was only trying to manipulate the world into worship sounds pretty darn nice. "How'd it all end?"

Angel jumps in. "Not important," he breaks in. "Evil. Let's talk about it. Now." He folds his arms resolutely and nudges Cordelia's shoulder.

Cordelia gapes at him for a second, rubbing her arm bemusedly. "Still a sweet-talker, huh, Angel? You know how to get a girl revved up--'cause fighting evil's _sexy_ and all." Then she grins. "I guess you _do_ still find demon goo and battle-axes sexy."

Buffy has to refrain from saying, "Well, _duh_." Because, come on--who _doesn't _ find shiny, deathly steel and demon guts a turn-on? She's about to break in with a probably ill-fated story about her and Spike and the aftermath of taking out a whole nest of N'gorkath demons when Spike chooses that moment to blow his (very attractive) top.

"Look." Spike's voice isn't so amused anymore. In fact, he sounds downright irritated. "Not that this reunion hasn't been all fun and games, but I'm a bit tired of hearing about Bossman's issues, the amazing adventures of Team Ponceypants, Coma Woman's grievances and most of all, this big, bad, as-yet-unnamed brewing evil! Now, I've been a good little boy for the past several _ frightening_ exchanges among you lot, but I can't hold my tongue any longer. I just can't. Tell us what this vision was so we can go fight it, and then me and my lady love are long overdue for something of a chat. We're gonna have that chat, and none of you lot are gonna horn in, get it? So tell your damn story or we're leaving, woman!" Spike commands Cordelia.

Cordelia pretty much just scoffs in Spike's face, and Angel gives his granite-face from his place at Cordelia's side, but Buffy appreciates the effort and understands Spike's frustration. They _still_ haven't gotten a smoochie, and it hasn't even been because they were off being heroes. Mostly 'cause they were off being...well. In the company of _idiots_. She places a hand on Spike's shoulder to calm him down, 'cause he may look harmless, but she still remembers the savagery Spike has it in him to commit when it's needed. And the way he and Angel are looking at each other, Buffy's sorta positive Spike could plead that Angel's death was of the necessary sort.

"Guys, come on," Buffy soothes. "I think Angel had a good point, okay?"

"He did?" Spike asks, scandalized.

"He did?" Cordelia questions, suspicious.

"I did?" Angel echoes, confused.

"You did," Buffy confirms. "He said that we're not here to be at each other's throats or bodies--" Though one look at the way Dawn's looking at Gunn and you wouldn't think so, Buffy thinks despairingly, before deciding she can't even go there right now. "We're here, all together, at this moment, to unveil Cordy's big vision, deal with the dealie, and go on our tra-la-la-ing ways. And yes, there will be chattage between you and I," Buffy assures Spike, "And you can all have your turns on the merry-go-round of love and doom, but for now, point me to a bad guy and some weapons, please. Much simpler."

Spike grunts, and she can tell he's getting ready to argue, but she turns to face him, using one of the most lethal weapons in her arsenal. The puppy-dog eyes.

"Spike, _please_," she says. "I promise we're gonna be doing a lot of talking--and other stuff--later, but right now, can we just focus on the comedic stylings of Angel and Co.? The more we indulge, the more they divulge, so let's just get to the root of the problem. We're _done_ the second whatever beastie needing killed is gone kaput. 'Kay? Just give me a little time so we can have _our_ time."

Spike looks at her, that intense peering-into-her-soul thing he always used to do during their more serious moments. And he must see something he likes, because all opposition flees his face and he relaxes, giving a devil-may-care shrug. "Sure," he says. "Go right 'head."

Buffy just stares at him for a second. "Really? Just like that?" It throws her for a loop still, this shiny new cooperative Spike who flirts easily and is content to stand in the background while Buffy works out her issues with everything around her, instead of pushing her like he used to do in those days before either of them understood themselves. This is the Spike who's waiting for her but _not _at the same time, who's almost _making_ her move forward with his indescribable pull, his very proximity.

"Yeah," Spike says. "Just like that." He looks at her and smiles. "I trust you, don't I? You say we'll get our chance, I believe you."

It's moments like this, where Buffy just can't understand him (and doesn't really feel she _needs_ to anymore in order to just lo--like him an awful lot) that her knees go unexpectedly weak.

"Okay," Buffy says finally. "Okay. Good." Her cheeks are hot as she turns back to the others, and the expressions on their faces range from carefully blank (Angel) to soppily sweet (Fred). Buffy sighs. "If only the world could handle knowing about vampires and the forces of darkness," she deadpans. "My life would make one heck of a reality show. I mean, _you_ guys sure like to indulge in the voyeurism." Her glare tells everyone that tender moments between her and her honey are off-limits.

"Buffy, you were standing right in front of us," Dawn says. "Kinda hard not to see everything. You're both sorta obvious even when you're trying to be the most stealthy ones in the room--which is laughable, because you guys are like elephants. Elephants with blonde hair."

"Are you saying I'm fat?" Buffy asks, wounded, momentarily forgetting her embarrassment.

"I've been cutting back on the pig's blood, you know!"

"I think she meant that you two are so obvious that it's kinda hard to miss when you stop talking _in the middle of a dialogue_ to stare meaningfully into each other's eyes. Which is really weird, by the way, because what does he see in your eyes? He doesn't have a reflection or anything, so it's probably blank Buffy space." Cordelia helpfully supplies. "Strange."

"Thanks, Cordelia," Buffy says dryly. "For calling attention to our fun little quirks. Thanks a lot."

"No problem." Cordelia smiles acidly.

Lorne jumps in. "And plus, sweet girl, your body language, not to mention your aura, is practically screaming out everything packed into your teeny little body. You want to tell honeybear something real bad, but something's holding you back. Maybe you're not ready to say it in so many words, but believe me. You'll tell him. Someday."

Buffy shivers, the words triggering a memory from long ago. Cassie had said something much the same before she died, and Buffy had always assumed her prophecy had come true at the Hellmouth. But what if not? What if she and Spike still had some stuff to go through before it could all happen for real?

Lorne is still speaking. "Ah... and you had...pretzels for lunch, right? Oh, and in the back of your mind, you still really regret not buying those silver sandals, but honey, let me tell you--they would've looked i awful /i with probably everything you have." Lorne swishes his drink around in his glass, giving a benign smile.

Spike cocks his head. "What about my aura, then?" He looks genuinely curious, though Buffy can tell he's also itching to ask her about her reading. His eyes, flitting to her only for a moment, still seem to burn into her skin.

"Hmm. Can't say, Blondie. You have a lot more miles to go before anyone knows what's happening with _your _soul. But you _did_ have pig's blood and Triscuits for lunch this afternoon. And you i are /i trying to cut back, good for you. Other than that, all I'm getting is your intense desire to jump Goldielock's--"

Again, Dawn breaks in with the "Ew," and this time, Buffy is fervently glad.

"That's all well and good," Wesley interjects. "We're glad for the insight, really, Lorne. But might I add that _ I _think Spike had a good point?"

"He did?" Angel asks, scandalized.

"He did?" Buffy questions, suspicious.

"I did?" Spike echoes, confused.

Cordelia finishes Wesley's thought. "You did," she sighs, grudgingly. "You told me to get on with it, and I think I probably better. The sooner we get started on this, the more of a crisis we avert. And the less time we have to spend embarrassing ourselves." She turns to Angel and raises an eyebrow. "Which is what we're doing," she clarifies pointedly, looking from Angel and Buffy and Spike. "Buffy?" Cordelia takes a deep breath. "I spent a long time as a higher-being, so I think I know a little something about being the bigger person. Also, because I'm like two feet taller than you. Anyways, in light of this kind of awkward situation--" Cordelia gives a vague motion that encompasses her and Angel and Buffy and Spike, "I'm just gonna tell you that things can be totally cool with us. You're in one place and I'm in one place, and there's really no reason to be super-skanks to one another 'cause, you know--different places. Despite the fact that we were off to a rocky start--"

"'Cause of how you insulted my new honey and accused me of still being in love with my ex?" Buffy asks.

"Yeah, exactly. Despite that, I think as long as you keep your Slayery hands off Angel, we'll be perfectly okay. Okay?"

"Cordelia--" Angel starts.

"Shhh, Angel, the grownups are talking," Cordelia says distractedly. "Okay, Buffy?"

"Cordelia--" Angel intejects again, exasperatedly.

"Shh, Angelface, didn't the lady say the grownups are talkin'?" Spike says, amused. "Let 'em duke it out."

Buffy rolls her eyes. "There's not gonna be a catfight or anything, okay?" She looks at Cordelia. "Look. Staying away from Angel is a moot point now, because did you just _miss_ the whole thing where me and Spike were having a moment? I'm not _here_ for Angel. _You_ are. Me and him had our time. Now it's your time with him, and my time with this bleached lug over here." Buffy jerks a thumb towards Spike. "Nevertheless, if it worries you that much, take comfort in the fact that I'm only gonna be here as long as me and Spike need to be. You, however, are gonna be here _forever_. Or at least as long as Angel is." Buffy gives a wide smile.

Angel mutters, "Not _forever_. I'm not _stuck_ here or anything."

Cordelia heaves a deep breath. "Angel, be quiet. Me and your ex are having a bonding moment." She turns to Buffy. "Fine, Buffy. I get your point, and thanks." She looks down at her shoes. "I don't think we're really at hugging level, though, do you?"

"Oh, God, no."

"Good." They both heave twin sighs of relief before Cordelia waves everyone closer. "Now I think we can continue with the visioning, right, guys?"

No one answers. Because there is no one around but Buffy, Spike, Angel, and Cordelia. Buffy groans and looks beyond Cordelia, spotting Dawn and Gunn dancing amidst the crowd. Gunn looks like he's fighting an internal battle, his hands on Dawn's hips but his eyes darting this way and that. When they settle on Buffy, he yelps and steps away from Dawn, standing rigidly as the girl dances around him. Buffy snorts and peers past Angel's shoulder to see Wesley buying Fred a drink. They are standing close together, Fred peering past her long lashes, doe eyes so wide and beguiling, Buffy's surprised Wes isn't peeing himself with happiness that she's looking up at _him_.

And then there's Lorne. He's leaning against the bar, drinking to his merry content. His red eyes seem to sweep the room, and when he sees Buffy watching him, he raises his glass and starts making his way closer to the group, catching the arms of the others as he pushes through the crowd.

"Does your friend have a liver?" Buffy hisses worriedly.

Angel and Cordelia look at each other and shrug. "I'm not sure. I was trying so hard not to get my head cut off when I was in Pylea, I never stopped to do an anatomy lesson," Cordelia says, mock-earnestly.

"Your bad," Angel responds gravely.

Buffy ignores them. "Well, if he does have a liver, I don't think he likes it very much." She raises an eyebrow at Lorne's martini glass, and nudges Spike discreetly. "That's his fourth drink _tonight_."

Spike grins fondly down at her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. "That's m'girl," he says proudly. "Worryin' about every species under the sun. And their livers."

"Don't you think you'd drink too, honeybuns?" Lorne waves his martini around. "If you were stuck in a muddle with a bunch of emotional retards, I mean. Oh, I say that _lovingly_, kiddos. I do."

Buffy ponders. "We've been here for about fifteen minutes now, and the biggest thing that's been accomplished is a temporary truce between me and Cordelia. Okay, yes, if I were you, I'd probably be drinking like a fish right now. But I'm not, 'cause Buffy and beer do not mixeth very welleth. Now with that little last bit of Shakespearean insight, let's all put our listening ears on as Cordelia _very_ kindly tells us what's happening in the world of demons." She points to Cordelia in a tone that brooks no argument. "Cordelia? Vision? Oh, and Dawn, get your hand off Gunn's--hey! That's _not his arm_! "

"The vision," Gunn interrupts. "For the love of every single Prada shoe you've ever wanted, girl. The vision!"

"Okay, look. It's a little unusual. There's gonna be a shooting," Cordelia announces. Angel immediately goes into leader-mode, as does Buffy:

"Where?" the both ask commandingly. At the same time. Buffy shakes her head and continues.

"When?" Again with the unison. Angel's jaw clenches and he smiles tightly. "You go ahead, Buffy."

Buffy smiles politely. "No, no. It's _your_ city. You be the bad cop."

Angel gives a suspicious look. "Okay," he says. "Cordelia," he starts. "Where does it happen, and when?"

"Oh!" Buffy breaks in. "Sorry, I was just gonna add who to that list, too." Her glance is apolegetic. "But you go ahead. I'm sure you would've gotten to it."

Angel sighs. "Thanks, Buffy. Really. Okay, Cordy. Another question to the list. Who does it happen to?"

"Right charitable of you, love," Spike whispers, his eyes laughing. "You know you wanna be General Summers all over 'gain, but you don't wanna emasculate your old hubby. Nice."

Buffy huffs. "I thought so too. Now shhh."

Cordelia is answering Angel's question, everyone's faces rapt and serious as the last vestiges of humor and absentmindedness leave them and business settles in.

"It was a weirder vision than I'm used to, so right away I knew things were off. I was in Wesley's office, straightening some of the books and trying to figure out a little why I woke up now, and how, when I came across a book with lizardy scales on it."

"The Dreathorn Chronicles," Wesley supplies. "A book written by a sect of demon-worshippers from Olde England. They're relatively young, considering the reputation of other demon sects in the world, maybe 200 or 300 years old. But they already have a standing as a small-scale demon tribute group."

"Like a rock tribute group? Only with demons?" Fred asks. "'Cause that'd be sorta cute, actually--"

Wesley grimaces. "Decidedly not. These worshippers are ashamed of their blood status, and their one goal is to be pure demon, utterly powerful. It's made up of everyone from humans to vampires to your everyday monster of the week. They pay tribute to the Old Ones of the world, the pure demons who walked the earth and have lived, or even been destroyed and sent to Hell, without mingling their blood with humans. Not a very nice group of creatures, really. They once sent a Molotav cocktail sailing through our windows at the Council. Burned a priceless tome." Wesley's eyes narrow. "Bastards. Also, they eat souls. The pure energy of a soul feeds them, and after they have fed, they are offered as tribute. With each passing tribute of soul and devotee, the demon they are worshipping grows more powerful. This is why the Dreathorn are so dangerous; they recruit more and more with each passing day, and there is more potential that countless older, dangerous demons, _pure_ demons, can be reawakened through ritualistic means. Essentially, if they ever prove successful, which they haven't yet, you're looking at an Ascension a day."

Cordelia curls her lip in disgust. "Fun little group there. Big giant snakes every day of the week. Exactly what I would join a club for."

"Why can't they just do it for extra-credit? Like me?" Dawn asks forlornly.

Buffy sighs. "Always with the rituals. Can't a demon-group just, like, make a sign or something? Rah, rah, go Malthor, King of the Bowels of Hell! Wear the team colors or something? Blood and guts and entrails, goooo team!"

"Not that easy," Angel mutters, thinking. "It's always a ritual. I came across a Dreathorn once, but my soul wasn't good enough for it. I mean, I was offended then, but now I guess it was a good thing."

Gunn snorts. "Your soul wasn't good enough? What in the hell is that s'pposed to mean, huh? It ain't shiny enough for something?"

"Not pure," Spike speaks up. "They can only feed on pure souls, that right?"

Wesley nods. "Yes. And as Angel did his fair share of louting and whoring and sinning as a _human_, I doubt even his conscience would be enough to make his soul adequate for a sacrifice."

"I was young," Angel scowls. "Me dad was a brute that chased his own son from his rightful home." His accent thickens on its own and everyone looks at him.

Spike narrows his eyes. " _Faker_," he accuses.

"Anyway," Cordelia continues, loudly. "I picked up the book and it was like the vision came out of nowhere. There was no pain, Angel. It was like, surround-sound, IMAX visioning, but none of the Advil-popping pain. I closed my eyes, and there it was. Outside a bar a lot like this one, but farther away. I didn't get the name, but it was a city, because I could hear city noises and it was in a smelly, city alley. There was a girl, tiny. Jane, I think, or Jen. Blonde, 'cause aren't they all? And then a gunshot, and blood everywhere. I saw another guy, too, and he was holding the gun, but he looked--shocked or something. Like he didn't know what had just happened. Then a horde of demons came around, a variety assortment even. Like fruit snacks, except not nearly as fun. The guy took off with the demons, and the girl was carted off by a few lackey-types. You can always tell who the lackeys are, 'cause they never have nearly as expensive cars."

Buffy nodded thoughtfully. "I guess it's true. Evil _does_ pay an awful lot."

"It's a high-risk job," Angel defends. "Not that fighting evil isn't just as rewarding," he hastily amends. "Just, uh, in different ways."

"Is that it, though?" Fred asks. "Is that the whole vision? I mean, it sounds like it oughta be a little bit more grave for you to call us all together. And where do Buffy and Spike fit into it?"

"The vision didn't end there," Cordelia says seriously. "It was mainly a series of freeze-frame moments coming at me anyway, so we're missing a lot of information. But the part that really sent me into freakoutsville was that one of the images was of the girl tied up somewhere, later on. She had a symbol, like a knot of brambles, carved into her stomach."

"That's the symbol of the Dreathorn, I'm certain of it," Wesley says. "It's supposed to represent the unification of many forms of life into the center of the knot: purity."

"Well, fun tattoo, Wes," Cordelia says, "But I don't think I'd want it carved into my stomach by a really big, ornate-looking knife."

"And that's not the freaky-deakiest part of it, is it?" Gunn asks. "There's gotta be more. Always is."

"Oh, there's more," Lorne chuckles. "You're a good storyteller, appledumpling. But cut to the Chase, excuse the pun. Time's a tickin' and our heroes are no less clueless than they usually are."

"The girl wasn't alone on the sacrificial slab," Cordelia says apprehensively. "And I got a really bad feeling that what she was being sacrificed for was a pretty insidious reason. I think they were raising something a bit more dangerous than additional funds for a school dance."

"Cordelia, tell us," Buffy says impatiently. "What did you see?"

"Yeah," Spike chimes in. "Was it a giant worm? 'Cause those are never good."

Dawn and Buffy emphatically nod.

"No," Cordelia sighs. "It was an Old One. I'm sure of it now, especially after Wes's description. Back in the day, when I was, you know, awake to research, I came across this description of the resting place full of some of the Eldest demons to walk the earth. It's guarded by a gateskeeper, usually. But there are thousands and thousands of Old Ones, and one little bitty gravekeeper. I'm assuming that, by the way, physically he could be the freakin' hulk for all we know. But what's important is that somehow, a sarcophagus from the graveyard is in my vision. Or I think it is."

"An Old One?" Wesley breathes. "The Dreathorn are trying new means to untrap an Old One from eternal sleep?"

"All I know is I see a big sarcophagus, hear a chant, see a knife, and poof! Big blue lady comes walking out." Cordelia looks shaken. "I dunno much about the reps of the Elderly Ones, but Wes. Angel. Guys. It felt bad. Really, really bad."

"It should," Spike says. "The Old Ones, any of 'em, are no Sunday picnic. If bloodshed was an art for us back in the day, it's Masterpiece Theater for them. War and worship is the way they live, or exist in any case. From what the stories say, there wasn't a pleasant one among them."

"A sarcophogus," Gunn is muttering. "Wait a minute. I just got a document...Jesus, a few days back! About a sarcophagus. Held up in customs! I was supposed to release it--"

Everyone looks at him. "And um. Well. We work at an evil law firm. And I got the legal mojo, which I mojo'ed. And uh...aw, crap. That damn thing could be anywhere now!"

"The Dreathorn have it," Wesley says solemnly. "I'm certain of it."

"How do you release it, though?" Angel asks. "The Old One's are just spirits, essences now. They need human bodies."

"Host bodies. The sacrifices. They...aren't being used for their soul at all," Buffy says slowly. "They're being kept as a harvest. For the Dreathorn to choose who the Old One will inhabit. The rest are just...cannon fodder. Food, maybe."

"So this is what we have to stop," Fred says decisively. "Old Ones from risin' and people from dyin'. Noble cause."

"The noblest," Buffy agrees grimly.

"But where do Buffy and Spike come in?" Dawn interjects, her eyes wide. "You said you saw them, too."

Cordelia looks at Angel, then Buffy, then down, biting her lip. "That's the thing," she says, taking a deep breath. Lorne leans in and puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Better spit it out, my leggy lovely. Just remember that predestination isn't always as pre as people think it is. You can always change what's written. You just need a handy, dandy metaphorical eraser."

"I think Greeney's drunk," Spike says in a stage-whisper.

"In the vision," Cordelia says, "In the vision, there are a lot of people I don't recognize on the slab. Probably club-goers. But two people I did recognize were there. Spike," she says, and Buffy's blood runs cold. "And Buffy."

"Hey," Buffy says, after a moment. "No big. We avert this big club shebang, ruin the Drearyborn's fun, and we're fine."

"Not so easy," Angel says. "We need to ensure the sarcophagus isn't opened. At _all_."

"So we find it, Forehead," Spike says. "We find it and take it back to the Well. All's well that end's well," he smirks.

Cordelia rolls her eyes. "Ignoring that appalling pun, lemme just say it gets complicated. Because yeah, you're both there. But one of you is on the slab, and the other isn't. I said that the Old One walks out of the smoke as a lady." Her eyes zero in on Buffy. "You're the lady, Buffy. Bigger, bluer, and ice-princess-y-er, but it's you." She turns to the others. "If we don't do something..."

"Buffy's gonna end up being the host body to an unspeakable evil."

- - -TBC


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks so much for all the comments, guys. I love them and they make me want to update! FYI, my account is pretty much four years old...so if you want recent, up-to-date stuff...go to for all my fics. If you have an LJ, def add me for up-to-the-minute fic updates! Thanks 3

- - -

Immediately there is furor all around them.

"You saw me as a big blue thing? And you're sure I was evil?"

"Okay, maybe you weren't explicitly evil. But you were definitely standoffish. You had that badass prowl thing that Connor--" Cordelia stops, glancing at Angel. "This guy I once knew, had." Her eyes are far-away, remembering. "Then you picked up Spike by the throat, slab he was attached to and all, and threw him across the room. Called him the shell's intimate."

"I am not intimate with shells, nor have I ever been," Spike says indignantly. "I may be a deviant, but I draw the line at inanimate objects. Most inanimate objects," he adds as an afterthought.

"We believe you," Buffy soothes. "I think it just means that whatever takes over my body does just that: takes over my body. Nothing left of me in there, and that's definitely dangerous. Slayer body with a demon inside it? Of the bad, no good, horrible variety. But look, guys. This vision doesn't necessarily have to come true. You get them so we you can prevent what you see from happening, right, Cordelia? So all we have to do is prevent a few key things from coming to pass, and yay--apocalypse averted." She straightens, squares her shoulders. "We can do this, easy-peasy, and hey. What does that mean anyway? That's a really silly term, peas are in no way easy--"

"Buffy, you can't be so casual about this," Angel interrupts. "Things in LA are different than they were in Sunnydale. The evil isn't so overt--it's gonna take a lot of digging and we don't have time for quips."

Spike feigns shock. "Really, bossman. There's always time for quips."

Buffy sighs. "Okay, I'm focusing. I can focus and quip at the same time--maybe not chew gum all at once, too, but focusing and quipping, can do. Cordy, how long do we have?"

Cordelia sighs. "God. I haven't done the sleuthing thing in along time--so used to the visions just telling me what's up." She arches a brow. "Is that lazy of me?"

Angel gives her a reassuring grin. "The twenty bottles we went through a month of Excedrin Migraine tell me no," he says.

Cordelia smiles back, warmly. Like they're friends, too, not only almost-could-be lovers. Buffy feels shock skitter through her once again, and not only because again, Cordy and Angel (_"Hello, salty goodness?" Who ever thinks anything could come of that?_), but also because the look on Cordelia's face is a lot like the look Buffy has seen before on Spike's face. Like she's talking to her best friend.

That Buffy could ever have been, could ever be, Spike's best friend sends something incredible right through her heart. Because when they're standing like this, shoulder to shoulder, silently communicating through warm touches and knowing glances, she thinks that Spike could be one of her best friends one day, too. The sort of best friend she smooches, of course, provided the big mystery hullaballoo is solved in time. Buffy shakes her head slightly and tries guiltily to tune into Cordelia's speech. She's really got stop wandering off into uncharted territories of Buffy-brain. It's never conducive to a) people losing the impression of her that she's incredibly stupid, and b) knowing what's up when the chaos starts brewin'.

Cordelia's eyes are squinty as she tries to recall her vision. "I think the people in the club were celebrating something. A birthday. There was balloons...confetti. People yukking it up. There was a banner or something. A banner with... something..." Cordelia closes her eyes, thinks. "Yeah, a birthday greeting...it said Happy Twentieth Birthday! in all those tacky shiny letter thingies. And there's a seriously gross color scheme--purples and lime greens everywhere. Yuck--would it kill to use a little class when it comes to party planning? The seventies were pretty much, oh, thirty years ago."

Angel frowns. "What about the guy in the vision? Did you get his name? The girlfriend was a Jane, or Jen. But what about the guy? He could be vital."

Cordelia squints. "I think she was saying a name as she was, well... bleeding to death," she confirms. "Maybe it was the guy's name? Or the demon's? Pike, so I'm inclined to think: demon, but then, parents are pretty progressive these days."

Buffy and Dawn both stop short. "_Pike_?" they say in unison.

"Well, it's either that or Ike. Maybe Spice? I don't know, I'm not some kind of a private detective!" She cocks her head. "Anymore."

"Cordelia, come on. Was it Pike, are you sure?" Buffy asks urgently. How much would it _figure_ that this big evil involves one of her exes? Throw Riley in the batch, and it'd be the funnest party ever! Although she probably wouldn't mind sacrificing Parker to a bunch of demons, but she doesn't make that well-known.

"It's Pike. It was so unusual, I guess it's sticking with me. Oh, you would know, wouldn't you, _Buffy_?" Cordelia gives a pointed look.

"Of course, _Cordelia_, especially since I know _him_." Buffy sighs. "Dammit. Just please let him not be a demon-worshipper."

"Buffy?" Spike asks. "Who's this Pike fellow?" His eyes are narrowed and he looks a bit put out, which would be charming if it weren't so dumb.

Buffy arches a brow. "Down, bleached-with-envy. It's the guy you were so charmingly accusing me of flirting with earlier."

"_Soul_ patch?" Spike asks incredulously. "He's our big link to defeating this evil?"

"Pike was _here_?" Dawn questions, her eyes scanning the room. Buffy remembers that Dawn had a rager of a crush on Pike once upon a ten year old dream, and she stifles a sigh. Prepubescent, whiny Dawn was so much easier than seventeen year old, having of the teenage body parts Dawn.

"Who's Pike?" Angel asks piteously, his expression a little grumpy. Buffy has to hide a smile, even though she's groaning on the inside. Look at all the jealous guys, she thinks bemusedly, except that he's the one who dumped me, and the other one died and came back without letting me know. Stupid jealous guys!

Buffy passes a hand over her face. "An ex, of _course_," she mumbles. "Shoot. He was _here_!" She looks around and prays he still is. "Okay, listen. Dawn, Spike, you two know what Pike looks like. You guys comb the crowd and outside the bar, see if you can find him."

"I was like, ten, when I last saw him, Buffy." Dawn protests, but the tell-tale gleam is in her eyes as she rakes a hand through her long hair. Gunn looks a little ticked.

"He still looks the same, Dawnie. 'Cept he grew a soul patch and he's wearing an updated thrasher tee-shirt and oh god, if you still think he's hot I have no faith left in your taste in men. Spike? Look after her." Spike looks at her for a moment, clearly not liking being sent on an errand looking for Buffy's ex. "_Please_."

"Always do, pet," Spike finally sighs, then, his hand at Dawn's elbow, he guides her through the crowd as they begin to look for Pike.

"Okay," Buffy says, turning back to the group. "From what I remember, Pike's birthday is...what's today? The...oh my god. His birthday is in three days! _Three_ days. Okay, alright, that's longer than I've gotten for some apocalypses, I can do this...wait, what if it isn't _his_ birthday they're celebrating anyway? He's not twenty. Why didn't you listen when he was talking to you, Buffy? Stupid Slayer attention span!"

"Buffy." Fred's hand is on Buffy's shoulder. "Hey, there. You don't have to stress out, okay? Having an embolism would be really bad, although I suppose it would get you out of bein' the host to some parasitic demon, but--the point is. You don't have to do it alone."

"Yeah, girl. We got your back," Gunn confirms, giving her a smile that doesn't nervously twitch for once.

"He's right, Buffy," Angel says quietly. "We're gonna make sure this vision doesn't come into fruition."

"I'm okay," Buffy protests. "I'm not worried--" Just a little hyperactive, but there are medicines for that. Like Valium. Ooh, Slaying on Valium. That's an acid trip waiting to happen. Buffy probably should be worried at the way her thoughts tend to derail, but she's too busy derailing to care.

"Puh-lease," Cordelia scoffs, breaking through Buffy's momentary distraction. "You're not worried that I saw you as the empty shell being taken over by an ancient demon?"

"She fought the very First Evil, sweetlips," Lorne chimes in. "I'm betting our Buffy isn't too rattled by something she's determined not to let happen. Good for you, kiddo--you're starting to understand destiny is what you make of it."

"I stopped worrying about dying a long time ago," Buffy says quietly. It's true. After The First Evil, everything else feels small potatoes. Buffy isn't just unafraid of dying though--more like, she's afraid of not living while she's alive. "It doesn't mean I don't take this seriously. I know if that thing takes over a Slayer's body, then we're all in deep doodoo. And I don't want Pike dead, or any of those clubgoers dead, either. But we have to think rationally and positively, okay? It doesn't _have_ to be the end of the world."

Fred smiles. "Truer words never spoken," she says. "I really _like_ your optimism, y'know?"

"Thanks," Buffy smiles back. "I like it, too, keeps me saner than--well, not sane. Now, listen." She sighs, thinking hard. "Okay, we have little to no time to figure out things. First things first, we need to track down both the sarcophagus and the location of the bar." Buffy stops. "Angel, Wolfram & Hart has a lot resources, right?"

"The best," Angel affirms. "We're at your disposal."

"Oh." Buffy's eyes are wide. "No, I didn't think--Angel, this is your thing, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"No, don't worry," Angel says. "You're...doing a good job. Maybe it's time I let someone else take the reigns for a bit. Might keep people alive for once." His eyes burn with past recriminations, and maybe Buffy doesn't want to kiss him anymore, but she does want to hug him and tell him she understands. She settles for a small, shadowed smile.

"Doubt it." she says. "I have the same unfortunate tendency to get people killed as you."

"Well, that's encouraging," Wesley interjects dryly. "Believe us, Buffy. If we were to listen to anyone else's unorthodox methods besides Angel's, we're glad it's a Slayer's. _The_ Slayer's." His smile is almost proud, and Buffy feels a little bit of regret that she doesn't know what Wes is like anymore, not as a colleague or a Watcher. She thinks they may one day have been friendly, even, given the chance. Would like the chance, after this all. With all of them.

"Well...good." Buffy says, touched. "Unorthodox method one: I need someone at Wolfram & Hart to dig up as much info on Pike as possible. Including his girlfriends. Uh, excepting me, of course. Illegal is your middle name up there, right? So don't worry about anything untoward."

"I can do that," Fred volunteers. "Although, it sorts bears mentioning that _my_ middle name is Maryanna. Anyhow, I'm awfully good with the computer hacking if there's nothing scientific around to concoct, and my moral compass kinda tinkers out when I enter that building. Or at least, it will for this."

Buffy nods. "Good going," she says, even though her biggest concern is that Fred's whole name is Winifred Maryanna Burkle and four whole syllables longer than her own. Almost puts Anya's old alias to shame, and if there's a small pang in Buffy's heart at the mention of her old sorta-friend, no one else will ever know. This would be just the sort of operation the ex-demon-turned-demon-again-turned-human would appreciate. Buffy sends a silent prayer that whatever she's doing will save other people from losing friends like Anya, and then gets back into the game. "Okay, so, we should actually probably set up base at Wolfram & Hart. I'm gonna need Gunn to follow up leads on that sarcophagus. Find out _everything_ you can about it. That is one of the most important pieces to this entire puzzle."

Gunn assents, looking sheepish. "I got it," he said. "And I, uh, promise not to sign anything without thinkin' again."

"Beneficial thoughts, lawyer boy," Buffy says. "Wes? I need you to find out what you can about the Well thingy, and--hey. Does Wolfram & Hart have private jets?"

Angel answers. "Better believe it."

Cordelia gapes. "Really? When this mess is over, it's _so_ Paris for us, buster!"

Buffy gives a small grin. "Great. Well, why don't the two of you take a mini-vacation for now to the Well's location--when Wes finds it, of course. Hit up this graveskeeper for any info about the Old One who may have been stolen. Mention blueness, ask for things like names, origins, followers, weaknesses. Yeah, weaknessess are a plus. Okay?"

Angel nods. "Sounds good." His eyes look admiring, Cordy's too (albeit grudgingly), and Buffy blooms a little under their impressed gazes. She's not some sixteen year old moron anymore--she's a big girl now. 'Bout time they all realized it. Her tone gets more authoratative, and she works to keep an even keel to her voice. No use getting all shouty when it's not thirty teenage girls she's talking to--just a bunch of emotionally stunted twenty-somethings or immortals who _act_ like teenage girls.

"Lorne, I need you working the underground demon info train. Find out all you can about anything big that's supposed to go down in a club setting. And I don't mean a gig-big. I mean end-of-the-world big. Mention Pike's name, see if it rings a couple of bells. Damn, if only I could remember his club's _name_--"

Lorne nods. "Easy, sugar. Not a problem. What about you? What are your well-manicured fists of fury gonna be doing?"

Buffy frowns in thought. "Well, while we wait for the apocalypse, someone's gotta patrol. Right? And I've been jonesin' for some vampiric smackdowns for a _long_ time. I guess, point me to choice vamp spots, and I'll be on my way."

"I'll join," Spike chimes in. Buffy turns and her eyes dim as she sees Pike is not with Dawn or him. "He left ten minutes ago," Spike explains at Buffy's downcast look. "Little bit asked the bouncer." He gives Dawn a reproving eye. "Chatted the meathead up, more like."

Dawn shrugs. "If you had boobs, you'd use 'em, too."

Buffy can't disagree, and from the look on Spike's face, neither can he. They both shake their heads to rid themselves of the disturbing thoughts, and Buffy speaks.

"He's gone?" she asks, despaired. "Well. Nevermind. Fred's gonna track him down, and I have faith in her abilities." She tries to smile brightly, racking her mind for anything she knows of her elusive ex.

Spike smiles fondly. "So do I, have faith in her abilities. Brought me back, didn't she?" Fred smiles shyly back, and Buffy is struck by all she doesn't know about Spike's bond with Team Angel. All she still doesn't know about _Spike_. He knows her so well; and she never let herself know him--how will they ever work with so much she doesn't understand?

Buffy sighs; now's not the time to think about it--she should just be glad there's no more testosterone shows bandying about. God, it was like a bad episode of the newest and edgiest shows, set in the most trendy of cities with the hottest of leading men--

Then something clicks.

"Wait! New York! I know Pike said he spends time in New York. In fact--" Buffy slaps her forehead. "I remember now! Lorne, the club's called Chosen, somewhere in New York City. I of all people should've remembered _that_. Find out what you can about it, and any parties happening there in the next few days. I'm almost positive that's what we're looking for." She shakes her head and frets. "I'm so _dumb_. He laid it all out in front of me. He wanted me to _come_. What if he's in trouble with the cult and that was his cry for help? I ignored it!"

"You're not dumb and you didn't ignore anything, love. How did you know your ex was gonna end up being vital to an evil plot?" Spike tries to comfort her, his voice cajoling.

"Uh, because it's _me_ and this stuff always seems to happen?" Buffy says. "I _killed_ one," she says, pointing to Angel, who looks mortified. "And come to think about it, I killed another, too." Spike grimaces at this and does that patented my-girl's-falling-apart-like-a-crazy-person look. Buffy continues to rant. "And hey, I ran off quite a few guys, too! This is just keeping with tradition--not only did I run Pike off, I also am getting him killed." Buffy shakes her head and whines slightly. "All I wanted was a nice vacation. The only stressful thing was gonna be whomping _you_ about the whole lying-about-your-resurrection thing. But nooo. Some stupid demon clan's got to make a ritualistic sacrifice." Her pout intensifies. "Someone is going to pay so _bad_."

Dawn wraps and arm around Buffy's shoulders. "You bet. I can scream at the loser when we find them, if you want."

Buffy, having been on the recieving end of Dawn's sonic blare of a voice, gives a weak smile. "Yeah, that'd be nice retribution," she agrees. "Okay."

Spike grins. "Don't be in a strop, pet. I have an idea that will make everything better." His eyes shine with that gleam he always used to get when he got particularly devilish ideas. "Let's go to New York tonight."

Immediately again, there is furor. Of the non-furor-ish sort. In fact, it's a flurry of appalled voices and shocked tones. Like Spike has had a _good_ idea for once.

"That's not a bad idea," Wesley says carefully. Buffy rolls her eyes and prepares to say that yes, yes it _is_ a bad idea, because Scooby road trips? Never good.

"See? I had a not bad idea," Spike smirks. "Thanks, Percy. Look--I'm telling you, Buffy. Leave Wolfram & Hart up to the A-Team here. All the real action's in the city that never sleeps. I miss the place, to be honest. All those starving artists and their bloody creative impulses--felt really at home. Before I ate them, of course." Spike's eyes are wistful, and it's a testament to how far gone Buffy is even now in the throes of an apocalypse that her heart thumps a little at how hot he looks when his eyes are so faraway.

Buffy squints, shaking herself out of her severely innappropriate moment. "Of _course_," she scowls. "Greenwich Village was a five-course meal, huh?" She taps her foot. "And I veto this idea. It's a stinky idea, and that's not a fun pun about New York subways and sewage and smelly muggers and taxi pollution and _ew_. We can't all go to New York tonight. Or soon--or maybe ever--we've got things to do! Research and prep and slayage--"

"Put a pipe in it, Buffy." Cordelia interrupts. "God. You're still _such_ a headcase. You and your bleached boyfriend could take a company plane to New York tommorrow morning. Do your slayage tonight here, stop by Wolfram & Hart, and then we'll all split up--me and Angel and Wes will go to the Keeper's Well, Lorne and Fred will stay behind to do research, and Gunn can be your muscle and Dawn's bodyguard-babysitter-thingie--"

Dawn looks like she's about to either die of happiness or kill Cordelia for the hyphenated insinuation that she needs a babysitter.

"--and all you guys have to do is scoop out Poke or Pike or whatever's creepy club scene. It's not rocket science, okay?"

Fred gives an eager sound. "Oh! But if it _was_...I'd be able to help you out with that, y'know. I've got a lot of--unofficial degrees in mathematics and science and...okay, well, Pylean wall-paintin', but the point is, if it _was_ rocket science--"

"But it's not," Cordelia interrupts, giving Fred a weird look. "It's just finding vampires and demons and killing them." Her lips quirk as she gives Buffy a pointed look. "Without falling in love with them."

Buffy rolls her eyes. "It's a _lot_ harder than it sounds," she says crossly.

Cordelia shrugs. "Don't I know it," she responds matter-of-factly. The girls' eyes hold in empathy for a moment, then fly to their respective honeys.

Buffy sighs inwardly, thinking about how she and Spike _still_ haven't had any alone time. Then she thinks about moonlit nights through Central Park, smoky bars with just the bass thumping and their hips bumping. Sewers where, chances are, she _won't_ get dumped. Times Square, with the lights and the craziness and the cool stores. MTV headquarters, where Buffy thinks she may stop by and give those VJ's a piece of her child-of-the-nineties mind (Grunge may be dead, but nothing could ever be cooler than black eyeliner and combat boots, and no amount of 'ice' in one's 'grill' would ever refute _that_ fact). Buffy can just imagine the trouble she and Spike could get into against the backdrop of a vibrant city and an endless supply of things to do.

New York, she admits grudgingly, could be a lot of fun, with Spike along. And they might get to smoochies. Buffy keeps going back to the smoochies a lot, she knows, but it's an issue vital to her sanity. If she doesn't get Spike lips soon, this whole trip will seem like a big waste and then it'll be back to those _dreams_ and the hot-and-botheredness of waking up in Rome without all that cool skin and those sexy blue eyes and the platinum hair (which Buffy actually _really_ likes, all snarky comments aside) to run her fingers through.

"Buffy?" Spike's voice cuts through her reverie, yet again. Buffy starts, embarrassed. She's _really_ gotta stop doing that. "You've got a little..."

He motions to his chin, and Buffy's hand flies up, terrified to think she may have gone so low as to emulate _Xander_ in the drooling-in-publicness-of-doom.

But to be fair, Spike _is_ pretty delish. Before Buffy's eyes can go faraway again, Spike gives a small grin and tugs at her elbow. "Come out of it, slayer," he admonishes. "Got to be righteous and noble and strong and hearty, can't go along all starry-eyed over whoever's playin' leading man in your perverted dreams." He gives a self-important nod. "Wouldn't be right."

Buffy arches an eyebrow. "I'll try and stop myself from thinking so much about Andrew, then," she deadpans. "'Cause we all know how much I love manly men like him."

Spike blanches. "I am _nothing_ like Andrew," he protests. "I mean, alright, I have a healthy appreciation for the classics, but come on--how can you _not_ enjoy a little Patrick Stewart in your life? He's a very robust man!"

Dawn nods. "He _is_ pretty hot, for an old, balding Englishman. I mean, Professor X _and_ Captain Picard?"

"Not to mention King Richard in the bloody Cary Elwes movie--Men in Sodding Tights, I think? Anyway, _thank_ you, bit. Provin' my point." Spike says, even though Buffy thinks Dawn did nothing of the sort as her taste in men runs the wrong side of _gross_. "But, back to the issue. I'm nothing like Andrew, yeah?" He squares his shoulders. "Bit more meat to my bones and brains in my head, in any case."

Angel snickers. "I'd debate that, Spike. You and Andrew seemed like two peas in a really annoying pod last I saw. What was that about Gandalf the Grey and his little eyes lighting up like a kid at Christmas?"

Gunn joins in on the fun. "Yeah, sounds like he wanted to be the Gimli to your Legolas, man."

Everyone stops their laughing and looks at Gunn. He shrugs. "What?" he asks. "Black man can't enjoy himself a little Lord of the Rings in his downtime? It ain't always Showtime at the Apollo or BET, okay?"

Lorne chimes in. "Yeah, sometimes it's Soul Train."

Buffy guesses racially-charged jokes lose their lustre when one guy is a street-thug turned lawyer-for-an-evil-firm, and the other guy is...well, not a guy, but a green-skinned demon.

There is a general melee as half the group joins in at Gunn's expense, and the other half continues to make Spike basement-crazy. Dawn is taking great delight in detailing the many dreams she's heard Andrew have in the livingroom, and the naughty things she claims to have heard come from the little freak's mouth. Angel is just smiling a smug little smile at Spike's manliness being questioned, and Cordelia is joining Fred and Lorne in thinking up other hidden hobbies of Gunn's that may be embarrassing (ballet, apparently, brings tears to his eyes, which ought to solve the Dawn problem right away--the girl's pretty much dead-set on the opinion that she's the only crier allowed in her relationships).

Buffy is just sorta sorry she started it at all.

It's Wesley who finally breaks the good-natured, highly distracted fights (and is it a superhero thing to have severe, severe ADD? Buffy thinks so, but then she thinks a million things at once, and is surprised _she's_ never ended up in the basement of some high school, scaring impressionable youths and rats off into the darkness). "People are going to die," he says loudly. "Just thought you all should know."

That pretty much brings the hyperactiveness to a low roar. Everyone exchanges guilty looks. "We know, English," Gunn says, abashed. "We'll be good."

Wesley cocks his eyebrow. "See that you are," he says, his voice taking a highly affected tone. "Only because I think it's a bit more important to discuss Buffy's impending demon possession as opposed to your severely questionable heterosexuality." At the stunned silence, Wesley grins unexpectedly. "Got you. Got you _good_."

The others break into nervous chuckles as Gunn slaps Wesley on the back and Buffy watches in abject horror. When even _Wesley Wyndham-Price_ is making light of an apocalypse, something is terribly warped.

"Hey," she says sharply. "Maybe I was being all tra-la-la before, but suddenly? Demon possession not seeming like such a far-fetched possibility. And me? Getting _really_ worried."

Spike snorted. "No need, love. Just 'cause Justice Leage can't get their shite together doesn't mean _I_ can't."

Angel sneers. "Oh, yeah, _Batman_?"

Spike sneers back. "Interesting you should call me that, Peachie, 'cause really, the Dark Knight is a lot like you. Broody, blustering, and a right bloody bore! I mean, please, stop whining about your tragic past already and _do_ something, right? Now Spiderman, there's a bloke with superpowers. Can swing from ceilings and quip at the same time and my fucking god above, I'm just as much of a terrific loser as Junior Whelp, aren't I?"

By this time Spike's expression mirrors Buffy's earlier abject horror, and they both stand there for a moment soaking in how extremely, er, quirky he has turned out to be.

"You're very good looking," Buffy says, steeling herself. "And you give good kisses. You're very good looking and you give great kisses." The phrase is well on its way to becoming a chant, Buffy can tell.

Spike gives a bemused smile. "Thanks, love." He bends down and gives her a lingering kiss on the cheek, his lips cool and smooth against her hot skin, his fingers ghosting over places they _really_ shouldn't be touching in a public place. Buffy feels that familiar jump in her gut at his proximity and curses herself at being so girly all over again.

Gooseflesh and all, it's a repeat of that sexually-driven year after her resurrection. Minus the deathly angst and pain and general pyschoticness of it all. Now it's just heat and flesh and the promise of something more to come. Buffy catches the smoldering look in Spike's smug eyes.

Something _way_ more to come.

"Ewwww. Come on, guys," Dawn whines. "Not in front of all the other skanky couples." Angel and Cordelia look overly offended for a minute before they realize Dawn's speaking about the gyrating pairs on the dance floor.

"Yeah, Buffy, you sure you're okay?" Cordelia gives a suspicious look. "You were always really freakish about public displays of affection."

Angel shoots Buffy an assessing look. "Love makes you do crazy things, I guess," he supplies. Buffy shoots him a gratified, surprised look.

"Yeah," Buffy agrees, and now it's Spike's turn to look surprised and gratified.

And maybe she is doing a crazy thing, 'cause New York with Spike? Suddenly seems like a _great_ idea.

And so it's decided. "A New Yorkin' we will go," Buffy says wearily. "God help us all."

- - -TBC-- -


	7. Chapter 7

- - -

Preparations, once the decision is made to fly to New York as soon as possible, are nerve-wracking. There is so much to do before leaving that Buffy can't even imagine going to sleep, which is funny, because after a year in Rome, she sorta got used to eight hours a night. Eight hours that _before_ Rome, would've been a luxury. As it seems it will be now.

_And we go full-circle,_ she thinks dryly. _Except I have much cooler hair._

She spends the limo-ride back to Wolfram & Hart being briefed by Angel's crew as to where the best patrolling spots are, what kind of monsters she should expect to encounter, and how exactly to get Gumshoe Demon out of cashmere.

"Gun_scu_," Wesley says, staring at Buffy as if she's some rare, fascinating specimen of stupid.

"Bless you," Dawn chimes in, giggling from the rear seats, where she's wedged between Lorne and Gunn. Buffy turns to the left and gives her a dirty look, then zeroes in on the hand Dawn has propped comfortably on Gunn's knee. Gunn makes a strangled noise in his throat and jerks his knee away, looking stoically out the window. Dawn pouts, rolling her eyes at Buffy.

Satisfied, Buffy turns back to face Wesley. "That's what I said, Wes," Buffy says impatiently. "Goonshoo." Except now she's saying it a little like, _go on, shoo_, and at the despairing look on Wesley's face, Buffy feels a sharp tug of nostalgia. That's a Watcher look. She misses her Watcher.

She misses Slaying.

As if on cue, her hands tighten and her knee does that restless jiggling thing that always gets on peoples nerves. Her eyes dart back and forth, taking in Wesley and Fred, sitting practically on top of each other, and Angel and Cordelia, conversing quietly with each other. And then there's Spike. Spike, who's looking at her bemusedly, eyes flickering from her face to her jiggling leg, back to her face again.

"Nervous habit, Slayer?" he asks.

"I need to beat things up," she blurts earnestly. "This--" she gestures helplessly. "It's a lot to process."

Spike nods. "I can see how that might be," he says, his hand a steady, reassuring pressure on her knee. There is no more jiggling as she looks up into his eyes, searching for the answers to all the questions she's had since last summer, trying to communicate her own answers to him. His grin is slower to unfurl away from all the craziness of post-reunion. Sadder, more reflective. But even and calm, and Buffy feels a jump in her belly at how well his eyes seem to be reading her. Despite everything, he's always mostly understood her. The best and the worst about her, and suddenly, Buffy wants to make sure it's only the best from here on out.

Her hand catches his and squeezes. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "This isn't exactly roses and butterflies, is it?"

Spike's expression is wry. "Don't expect it to be, with us. And you haven't got anything to apologize for, Buffy. Never have. I don't labor under the illusion that I'm some great hero, deserving of your affections. Always been glad of what you could give me, however you could give it." His eyes darken. "It's when I started asking too much of you that things went wrong, and I won't be doing it again. I'm here however you want me to be."

Buffy's heart feels like it's going to beat out of her chest. She can't deny that Spike had often scared her away with his, er, overzealousness. She could never apologize for treating him like scum back then, because, well, back then, he _was_. But in the later years, when Dawn and Glory and then Heaven had happened--Spike had been different. He'd been there in some inexplicable, against-all-laws-of-nature way. And it hadn't been about just getting in her pants, although that was what she made it into, that horrible year back from Heaven.

She hadn't been _able_ to make it into anything other than sex, really. Was half a person for so long, too scared of her own rage to want to live there with Spike, too skeptical of her light to believe it was enough to change Spike. So she'd let their dance become perverted and twisted and painful, and if that was all Spike had ever known, how was he to blame for encouraging it, for being _desperate_ for the hurt?

It makes her ache to think of how much wonder she saw in his eyes the night she let him simply hold her.

She's whole enough now to feel better about parting with that piece of her heart, though. With giving it to someone. Someone like Spike, who has never known gentle love, a steady, accepting hand in the dark. Spike, who gives one-hundred and ten percent of who he is to who he loves, no matter if she's a crazy crackwhore of a vampiress or an emotionally stunted, damaged bitch of a vampire slayer. Spike, who has infuriated her, frightened her, disgusted her, enchanted her. Loved her.

Been loved by her.

"I want you," she says, taking a deep breath, "to be with me in every way." She closes her eyes and lets herself lean against him, feeling the world tilt on its axis as she holds her breath, waiting to see how he'll recieve this.

His hand clenches a bit tighter on her knee, but that's the only irregularity to him at all as he lays his cheek gently against her head. Buffy suddenly feels giddy and full, like a balloon about to burst.

_Bursting is bad,_ she tells herself sternly. _Not enough space in this teeny tiny--okay, huge-- limo to burst. Don't burst._

His knee nudges hers and she expells a giant gust of air. Yellow dots swim in her vision.

"You alright there?" Spike asks, voice all rumbly and low.

"Oh, yeah," Buffy says weakly. "Just, um, have you ever felt like a balloon?"

Spike growls. "I've been _cutting back_," he says tightly. "Where'm I carrying it all, huh? In my face? Is it the jawline? Probably the gut. It's just the cling of the shirt, I swear it!"

Buffy rolls her eyes. "You look _fine_," she says crossly. "I was talking metaphorically, not asking if you're bloated. Which, incidentally, is the dumbest thing I've ever heard--do vampires even _get_ fat?"

Spike coughs discreetly, though Buffy's sure she heard 'Angel' somewhere in the ruckus. She nudges Spike, scandalized, but Angel just keeps canoodling with Cordelia. Buffy sighs, relieved. No bloodshed in the teeny tiny--okay, _huge_--limo.

Then Angel kicks Spike in the shin, a pretty impressive feat considering the fact that the seats are so low he's all squished up with his knees to his chest.

"Wanker," Spike mutters under his breath. Buffy rolls her eyes again, though she can't help but notice that Spike was sorta right--Angel _does_ look a little puffy, lately. Still, it's not sportsmanklike to rub it in, so she hides her smile and thanks the powers (silently) that _her_ man has cheekbones of steel.

"So, Buffy, while you and Spike are patrolling, and the others are doing their legal-eagle, wrangling jet-planes and Old Ones stuff, where does little sister get factored in?" Dawn's face is all eager beaver, looking way too excited for Buffy not to be suspicious.

"Why?" she asks. "Where does little sister _want_ to be factored in?"

"We-ell," Dawn starts, her voice taking on that wheedling tone Buffy knows only too well, "Since Gunn was supposed to be my bodyguard--"

"Baby-sitter," Buffy interrupts sternly. Spike doesn't quite stifle a snort fast enough, and she elbows him sharply.

"--whatever," Dawn continues loudly. "I was just thinking that he could show me around town, maybe give me tour of the college life over at UCLA."

Buffy arches her brow. "Dawnie, it's _11 p.m_," she says slowly. "It's been awhile since it was my scene, but somehow I doubt _classes_ are in session--even night classes. Even so-early-we're-having-them-the-night-before morning classes."

"But there's the whole authentic college nightlife experience! Gross, greasy food late at night, bands playing on the quad--"

"Crazy drunk kids making demon sacrifices." Buffy shakes her head. "Nuh with the double of the uh, missy. Been there and done that."

"Well, _I_ haven't," Dawn grumbles, folding her arms and looking mutinously out the tinted windows. She has to look over Gunn's hulking body to do so, however, and he wriggles uncomfortably, already nervous about his implication in Dawn's scheme. (His expression pretty much screams "Don't kill me, big-sister-who-is-a-Slayer-and-crazy-besides!" Buffy thinks she doesn't see this look on Dawn's potential honeys _nearly_ enough, and it almost endears Gunn to her.)

"I was drugged and chained up enough for the both of us," Buffy addresses Dawn bluntly. "Let's leave aside demons, for a second, shall we? College guys? Abercrombie and _perv_? No way. Nope. Never."

"What about when I'm, you know, _in_ college?" Dawn asks, her eyes rolling in that way that makes Buffy want to challenge every person ever who claims Dawnie isn't _so_ her sister.

"Three words," Buffy says, leaning in. "_All girls school_."

Dawn makes that weird shrieking sound in the back of her throat, and Buffy leans back, satisfied. She looks around the limo, taking in the vaguely horrified looks of everyone else.

"What?" she asks snippily. "Any of _you_ wanna take her around horny-boytown? Maybe get fed to a giant snake?"

Everyone busies themselves with looking out the window. Buffy scoffs. "That," she says, "is what I thought." She turns her head to glare at Spike. "And that's enough muffled laughter from _you_, Mr. Unhelpful Undead. You realize that Dawn and I are, in many not-gross ways, a package deal? You wanna be with me, you have to protect and look out for and annoy her. A lot. All the time, in fact."

Buffy's arms are folded and her mouth is in an anxious line, and she knows without looking that Dawn is just as interested as she is in Spike's response. The kid's good at dealing with many things, but abandonment is not one of them. Buffy has a sneaking notion that if Riley or her father were to come back around, Dawn would be giving them an even bigger freeze out than she's giving Angel. Heck, she threatened to light Spike on fire when he showed back up in Sunnydale, and she liked _him_ from the start!

"When have I ever not done what's best for the bit, hm?" Spike asks, his voice all gentle and beguiling. But Buffy will not be swayed, not even by that eyebrow arch thing he does that's so sexy and--

Oh. Drool. She pats her lip furtively and glares even harder at Spike. "There was that time you were evil and tried to eat her," she reminds. "Oh wait, let's just call that the entirety of junior year."

Spike makes a face. "Extenuating circumstances, love. I was, as you said, _evil_. And little girls were my favorite--"

Buffy, Dawn, and Cordelia all say in perfect, disgusted unison: "_Ew._" Angel only looks (disturbingly) nostalgic.

"Anyway, once I warmed up to you and your lot...or, actually, once you all tied me up like a dog, kept me chained to a chair, and made me wish I could stake my own self, me and niblet bonded."

Buffy huffs. "Oh yeah, over your undying hatred for, what, authority figures and the word 'no'?"

Spike smiles. "Don't be jealous." His lips brush her hairline and she sinks into him with a grudging sigh. "We bonded over how much you drove us crazy."

"Um, but for him, it was that weird, icky, latent sexual obsession way," Dawn clarifies. Her eyes get misty. "We pretty much spent all those times Giles was supposed to be 'babysitting' me playing cards and making up new ways to torment you." She smiles fondly. "Spike came up with the infamous laundry idea. It was genius, I gotta admit."

Buffy's melty snuggle with Spike halts. "That was _you_?" she asks, in a deadly serious way. Spike blinks, then flashes a nervous grin.

"Erm, not exactly," he says. "I just gave the girl a suggestion or two." Buffy's eyebrows knit. "Hey!" he says defensively. "You kept me tied up to a _chair_. With Giles. Giles, who, need I remind you, spent his days cross-referencing and watching the BBC. Sometimes at the same time."

Buffy shoots a sour look at him. "You told Dawn to wash all my clothes in the wrong cycle so they'd shrink. So they'd shrink in a way that rendered them unwearable." She sputters at the memory. "I had to wear her sparkly Carebears t-shirts for a _week_, Spike!"

Dawn and Spike share a reminiscent smile and Buffy narrows her eyes.

"Mmm," Spike says. "And what a week that was. The day you wore that blue one, with the hem that rode up?" He arches an eyebrow and licks his lips. "Good day." Buffy scowls and Spike smiles wider. "Hey, BBC. Cross-referencing. At the same bloody time, remember? I had to get my jollies somehow," he says defensively.

"Well, good luck getting your jollies _ever_ again," Buffy says sweetly. Spike flashes an alarmed look at Angel, who smirks and gives a 'You're on your own look.' Which, of course, he would. Buffy never got to withhold sexual favors from Angel, 'cause sexual favors turned him all evil. She shoots a slightly charitable, considering look at Spike. At least her trump card works with _him_.

"Sorry, love," Spike says, utterly, innocently contrite, and utterly, innocently full of bullshit. Buffy sighs. Guess a person can take the obnoxious out of the vampire, but taking the vampire out of the obnoxious--well. Aside from not making sense at all, that notion's impossible. Vampires are always obnoxious. Difference is, _her_ obnoxious vampire is very, very hot, and Buffy is very, very shallow.

Also, he loves her. Which really does count for more than just about anything at this juncture, considering that she pretty much (and despite her best judgements) feels the same way for him.

She gives a small smile. "Fine," she says reluctantly. "I guess it's just good that you two get along." Her eyes are stern when she faces Dawn. "When we get back, I'll take you around campus for the official tour, and Spike will take you for the whole nightlife thing. Only I'm not responsible for how many guys he turns away with his intimidating swagger--or his, you know, insults. Don't come crying to me if he calls them poncey little nancy boys with very bad hair."

Another surreptitious glance at Angel.

"Also? No plotting to ruin my wardrobe, read my diary, or overthrow my command. And no lighting his hair on fire. Got it?"

Dawn gives a huge sigh. "Can you at least sign a waiver that says you guys have to stay, like, 25 feet behind me at all times?"

Buffy screws up her face. "Um, _no_," she says, at the same time that Spike says, "Not on your life, bit."

Buffy looks to Spike, shares a small smile. Call her creepy, but hearing him get all authoritative and parent-y gets her hot, and oh God, she's just a Fruedian nightmare, isn't she? She blinks and shakes herself out of it. "For now," she says, "You can come to New York with us, while Gunn stays behind and makes sure Wolfram & Hart doesn't get taken over by hostile undead beings."

Angel clears his throat. "Been there," he says. "Done that."

Wesley nods. "Quite." Buffy wrinkles her nose, feeling another one of those stupid but insatiable-curiosity-inducing questions coming on. It wouldn't do any good to ignore it, else she'll be wondering _forever_ (like during key points of battle, she once almost got her head torn off by a Hrack demon, 'cause she was wondering what the difference between Skeet Ulrich and Johnny Depp was) so she just gives in and asks. They're only two blocks from Wolfram & Hart anyway, and she's getting tired of all of Angel's cronies listening in on her business.

Besides, Slayer ADD is not to be ignored.

"How come you guys say 'quite' so much?" she asks Wesley curiously. "Whenever I tell Giles that his sweater's ten years out of style, or ask him if he wants to strangle Andrew even more with each passing moment, he's all, 'Yes, _quite_. Like the quite exponentially empowers the sentence with its punctuation powers." She frowns. "It's just weird."

"Is there gonna be a language barrier to contend with now, Slayer?" Spike snorts. Buffy hushes him, poking him in the gut. Wesley's got his fingers pinched over the bridge of his nose, that look of weary disbelief that Giles wears so well. Buffy can't help but muse over how fun it is seeing that expression on someone else's face.

Wesley finally blinks slowly at her, mouth slack. "Er," he begins. "Just, uh, one of the many quirks of the British language, I suppose," he says. He shares a look with Spike, and Buffy's a little suspicious it's that annoyed 'Americans' look that Giles aways gets whenever she and Willow and Xander make up a new word.

Before she can respond with "Also, how silly is calling underwear _pants_?" Fred pipes up. "Oh! We're here!"

Despite herself, curiosity makes Buffy peek behind her shoulder, out the window. At the massive, gleaming, really freakin' insidious-looking building towering over them. She's still gaping at the fortress of Evil Minions, Inc. when the limo enters the below-ground parking deck. She's startled out of her awe by the sheer amusement of watching Angel grumble and groan through a voice-recognition and thermal heat (or really, lack thereof, with him) check of everyone in the car. When her turn comes up, she says her name nice and loud, and is somewhat pleased to hear the electronic voice sound a little scared.

"Slayer, comma, the," the voice intones, sort of in the vein of 'Good going, boss, _she'll_ be great for business.'

"Better believe it," she mumbles ominously, then stifles a shriek when something hot passes over her.

"Sorry," Angel says apologetically. "Body scanner. It's probably being a little overzealous with you, seeing as...well, according to Wolfram & Hart files, you're not exactly an ally."

Buffy narrows her eyes. "Evil," she accuses. "With your evil machines that have minds." She shoots a paranoid look at the machine outside the limo, casting a red light across the bodies in the car, and shivers as she remembers Moloch and Ted and--Buffybot. Spike seems to remember this too, because he has the grace to blush when she darts a look at him. Angel just gives a roll of his eyes. "You scoff now," Buffy tells him darkly. "But what happens when the computer tries to eat your brain?"

Angel looks about to laugh, before it apparently hits him that yes, in _their_ lives, it _could_--and probably will--happen. He frowns and Buffy smiles smugly. "Computers aren't always your friend, Angel." she says. "When we were going through old Watcher's files, we found records of this group of ninja assassins that had a whole enclave of robo-impersonators from the Council."

Wesley raises an eyebrow as the limo comes to a stop. "A robot of my father," he says dryly. "That'd be a sight to see. I was always under the impression my dad _was_ a robot."

Dawn gives a serious look. "That's only funny when it can't be true," she reminds Wesley. "I mean, Buffy totally blew up the ninja hidey-hole, but maybe Roger Wyndham-Pryce-robot escaped." She taps her nose, then her temple, significantly, and Buffy can't help but think again that her sister is really, really weird.

Apparently, Wesley thinks so, too. The doors open and they begin to file out, but he turns to Dawn. "How do you know my dad's name?" he demands suspiciously.

Dawn smiles a serene smile over her shoulder. "Read his file," she says. "Also: read yours. Fun fact? Your middle name is officially _the_ lamest thing I've ever heard, and did you know they keep incident reports from Watcher Academy on file, too? Like, say, from _someone's_ seventh year?"

Wesley's eyes widen. "Yes, well, um. Not relevant, not at all. Robots are a threat, I do agree. Let's focus on--hey, now! Buffy's going to be evil very soon!"

Cordelia is looking at Dawn with an expression of deep respect. So is Spike. Buffy feels like she should be worried that Dawn is so good at being a snoop and blackmailing people with scandalous pasts, but she's so grateful it's not _her_ diary the kid's reading anymore, she just let's it slide.

"How about we all take a tour of Casa de Poofster first, and then me and you will go out and kill nasties till all the arrangements are made." Spike says, slinging his arm comfortably around Buffy's shoulders. She finds herself leaning into his embrace, as if they were in high school, and he was the prize-winning quarterback and she was the cheerleader. Well, once upon a time she _was_ a cheerleader--

The image of Spike, fangs and all, snarling behind a Razorbacks football helmet, muscles flexing underneath all that spandex, flashes through Buffy's mind.

"Luv?" Spike motions to his chin. "You have a little..."

Buffy wipes furiously at her chin. Twice in one day--she really _is_ turning into Xander.

"Wow," Dawn says dispassionately, passing Buffy as they enter the employee elevator into the building. "Twice in one day. You really _are_ turning into Xander."

Buffy rolls her eyes as Spike gives a rude gesture at _that_ opinion. The elevator responds again to Angel's voice activation, and then, with a shudder and a jerk, it's off. Her hand automatically finds Spike's, fingers lacing through his as her breath catches. Funny, she thinks, how there are eight other people in this elevator, but the only presence she feels through the sudden, irrational fear, is Spike's. She's no shrinking violet, but--

"I hate elevators," she says quietly. "They remind me of--other small, dark, airless boxes." She itches her neck, looks down, embarrassed. "You understand. You said." Her fingers move as to let go, but Spike catches her hand and holds fast. She looks to him, and he is gazing down at her with a storm of feelings reflected in his eyes--understanding, guilt, sorrow, and something soft that she never wanted to see before. But she likes seeing it now.

"There's no shame in shying away from deathly heralds, Buffy," he says, equally as quiet. "Tell the truth, I'm happy that you're not chasing the spectre of the afterlife so zealously anymore. And I do, you know. Understand. Don't think I would much fancy getting back into my own mahogany and ash."

Buffy ducks her head, absurdly grateful for his understanding. Beside her, Dawn lays her head on Buffy's shoulder, a sisterly tilt of her chin in affection. Despite Buffy's efforts to keep her voice pitched low, the elevator _does_ have two vampires, a demon, and a little sister with freakish, bat-like hearing. Behind her, Angel gives a wordless show of support, a whisper of his hand against her shoulderblades. She's touched at his concern, and casts him a thankful glance.

Spike's hand tightens on hers and she smiles. Leave it to Spike to ruin the heartwarming moment _he_ started. She squeezes his hand back, a subtle reminder that it's the twenty-first century and she likes her vampires slighty less possessive than in the Victorian age.

Also? She always likes to remind her boyfriends that she could _so_ beat them up. Wait, _boyfriend_?

The elevator jerks to a stop and the doors part. Lorne is the first one out, turning to face them and giving a beckon. "Come on, kiddies. Let's give the Chosen One a behind-the-scenes peek at the institution that keeps evil rolling in style."

"Hey, we're _not evil_--" Angel begins, casting Cordelia a desperate look.

Cordelia snorts. "Yeah, just morally ambigious, I've heard it all before. Ooh, is that woman wearing Gucci?"

Buffy and Lorne turn to look. "Yep," they say simultaneously. Buffy slants an assessing look at Lorne.

"Good eye," she praises. Spike mimes vomiting into a nearby plant and she renews her grip on his hand. Any boyfriend of hers has to have a healthy appreciation for her unhealthy appreciation of shoes. Wait, there it is again---_boyfriend_?

She looks speculatively at Spike. If her inner monologue is anything to go by, she really ought to ask Spike where they stand. She can imagine how that conversation would go: "Hi, honey, you know how we were mortal enemies and you tried to kill me and I tried to kill you and then you fell in love with me and we had dark, depressing sex until you tried to force yourself on me, repented and then went to get a soul, by which time I was too world weary to even consider a relationship, even though I told you I loved you and finally meant it while you burnt up and supposedly died? And you know how you're back now? Well, can we boyfriend-slash-girlfriend? No, that wouldn't be moving too fast, not at all."

Buffy bites her lip. Maybe her inner monologue should hold its horses for a bit. For now, the fact that Spike is back and holding hands with her and they're not beating each other up is establishment enough for her.

"Come on," she says. "Show me around this nifty den of sin. We'll talk shoes later."

The tour is actually pretty cool. Fred and Lorne are effusive guides, peppering the standard "This is the copy room, that's the mail room," with colorful commentary such as, "This is where Mary from Demonic Languages accidentally invoked the wrath of a mucus monster, it took her _forever_ to get the snot-rockets out of her cashmere!" or "That's where the gals in Cursed Texts accidentally got their eyelids sealed shut--it was sorta funny till they started walkin' into walls and spilling coffee everywhere. Incidentally, ya'll should remember to read the fine print on any boxes you might stumble over, there in Cursed Texts."

After the fifth "That's where..._accidentally_ did something dangerous that almost ended their life," story, Buffy can't help but raise her eyebrows.

"Sure seems like a lot of, um, accidents happen around here," she says carefully. Angel studiously gazes at a point behind her left ear, which is a dead giveaway that he's about to tell a whopper.

"Buffy," he says gravely. "Of course they're accidents. If these incidents _weren't_ accidents and were instead some sort of calculated effort on our parts to put certain troublemakers in the wrong place at the right time, then there would be..." he trails off. "Gunn, what's the term?"

"Liability issues," Gunn supplies helpfully. Angel nods.

"Yeah," he says. "Those." Then, with a dark smile at Spike, he points to another set of elevators. "That's where Spike accidentally got the crap beat out of him once. By me, by the way."

Spike's eyes narrow. "Yeah, seemed to be a good day for you. Didn't you also turn into a puppet and get _eaten_ by your werewolf girlfriend, too? By the way."

Buffy's eyes get wide. "Puppet?" she asks, trying frantically not to envision a marionette Angel. The image is too creepy for words.

"Girlfriend?" Cordelia asks, voice deathly quiet, hands on hips and eyebrow arched.

"Um. Werewolf?" Dawn asks, looking at Angel with a strange, thoughtful expression on her face. "I wonder what you'd call a werewolf/vampire hybrid. A verewolf? A wampire?"

"Scott Speedman," Lorne supplies. "Ever see Underworld? If every vampire ever looked like Katie Beckinsale, I wouldn't shudder at the thought of tiny little dogs with fangs running around."

"Well, that was a real breakthrough movie," Fred says. "First of its kind!"

"In the genre?" Dawn asks blankly, blinking. "'Cause I know I've seen some pretty bad wampire/verevolf films before. 'Revenge of the Bloodsucking Dog,' 'Rover's Got Bite,' 'Transylvanian Pound,' to name a few."

Buffy makes a note to cancel all the bad Italian cable. Or Andrew's current living situation with them. Dawn doesn't need any more wacky horror films to perpetuate her innate weirdness.

"Uh, no." Wes says, his eyes wide. "I think Fred meant it was a breakthrough in supernatural science. After the movie, she got all sorts of ideas..."

"Ideas that Mr. Party-Pooper and Mr. Party Pooper Two over there nixed," Fred grumbles. She points at Gunn and Angel.

"Hey," Gunn says, "Liability!"

"Also," Angel says testily, looking sorry that he ever brought it up, "Off-topic. Buffy and Dawn have had their tour. I'll call the company jet and make sure it's ready for liftoff in the morning. Gunn, make arrangements for three to stay in New York. Make sure the East Coast branch is ready for Buffy and Spike. Fred and Wes, start the research thing. Lorne and I will work the demon underground for info. And Cordelia? Nina wasn't my girlfriend, she was--."

Cordelia just gives him a coolly appraising look. "Whatever," she interrupts. "Since you obviously don't need me right now, I'm gonna go take a nap," she says loftily, ignoring Angel's gaze.

"Didn't you... just wake up from a coma?" Buffy asks, brow furrowed. Spike snorts behind his hand and she elbows the spot she knows will be sore tommorrow morning. Funny or not, he is _so_ not helping.

Cordelia nods slowly. "Yeah, but I wanted Angel to feel bad about making assumptions regarding my health and well-being. I may have been coma-girl, and maybe I'm not as strong as a _werewolf_, but I'm still half-demon."

Buffy's eyes widen. "_Really,_" she says. "That's...very enlightening." Enlightening in the way that Buffy doesn't feel at all envious of Cordelia's perfectly curled hair and long legs anymore. Look who's all not-normal-girl now! Hah!

"I'm coming with you and Lorne, bub," Cordelia says to Angel. "I can work over those demon bartenders with the best of 'em. I mean..." she looks down. "I still have cleavage, right?"

Wisely, no one answers her. But she seems satisfied enough by the evidence in front of her face.

Buffy gives a resolved sigh. "Okay, then," she says, looking at the motley crew of assembled avengers. "Me and my man are gonna go do what I--we-- do best, then." She shares a look with Spike. "Kill stuff."

As she's walking out the door, she says over her shoulder, "We've got roughly three days before I turn into a body bag for some hopped up demon god. Let's get cracking."

As exit lines go, Buffy's pretty sure she done good.

- - -tbc- - -


End file.
